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I 


BOURDALOUE AND LOUIS XIV 


OR, 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 




TRANSITED FROM THE FRENCH 


OF 


L. L. F. BUNGENER, GENEVA. 

12TH EDITION. 


WITH AN INTRODUCTION, 

B.Y THE 

REV. GEORGE POTTS, D. D. 


A NEW EDITION, WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
OF THE AUTHOR. 




OF Co,V, 


vvash';^ 

(b. Lothrop Co., C^ublishers, 

38 & 40 CORNHILL. 



Rookwkll & CutmcmLL, Printers, 
122 Washington St., Boston. 


CONTENTS 


> 

PAG£ 

Biographical Sketch of the Author. 

Introduction , 9 


CHAPTER I. 


The uncle and nephew. — Court news and Court morals. — Fashion- 
iBLE preachers. — FeNELON’s VIEWS OF BoURDALOUE 27 


CHAPTER II. 

The council of the Philosophers. — Bossuet, Renaudot, Fleur y, Lan- 
GERON, CoRDEMOY, FlECHIER, ETC. — COMMENTARIES OF BoSSUET. 

Discussion of the structure of pulpit discourses. — Bourdaloue’s 
STYLE AGAIN 48 


CHAPTER III. - 

Bossuet and the Marquis de Fenelon. — Character and genius of 
THE Abbe de Fenelon.— Delineation of portraits dangerous 

FROM THE PULPIT. PERSONAL APPLICATION OF THE TRUTH DIFFICULT. 

— Arnauld. — Duty of Bossuet to the Kjng. — Sudden summons 
FROM the King 64 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IV. 

PACK 

The King and the Philosophees. — The original grounds of Bos- 
suet’s high reputation. — Change in this respeot during the suc- 
ceeding CENTURY 


CHAPTER V. 

« 

Impression made by Versailles upon a stranger. — Influence of the 
Court upon the whole of France. — Importance given to trifles. 

— Absolute power of the King 82 


CHAPTER VI. 


The King’s displeasure. — Montausier and Bossuet in the cabinet of 
THE liiNG. IVIaDAME DE MoNTESPAN REFUSED ABSOLUTION 89 


CHAPTER VH. 

Bossuet alone with Louis XIV. — Unusual boldness. — “Thou art 
THE man.” — Hesitation of the King. — Bossuet gains a slight 
advantage 9'?'^ 


CHAPTER VHI. 

Bossuet waits upon Madame de Montespan. — Court piety. — Unea- 
siness OF Madame de Montespan. — Madame de la Valliere. — 
Royal confessors. — Appeal to Bossuet’s ambition. — Appeal to 
Madame dr Montespan’s conscience. — Bossuet loses what he had 


gained, 


105 


CONTENTS. 


VII 


CHAPTER IX. 

PAOB 

BoSSUE'f’s LETTER TO THE KiNG 122 

CHAPTER X. 

Bossuet visits Bouudaloue. — Claude’s letter. — Bossuet communi- 
cates THE STATE OF THINGS IN THE ChATEAU TO BOURDALOUE. — TlIE 
LATTER AGREES TO ALTER HIS SERMON FOR THE FOLLOWING DAY. BE- 
GINS TO READ IT TO BoSSUET. . ...* 126 

♦ 

CHAPTER XL 

Arrival of Claude. — Mutual Surprise and embarrassment. — Arri- 
val OF THE Messrs. Fenelon. — New Surprise. — Jansenist and 
Protestant. — Spirit in which sermons are commonly heard and 
criticised. — Claude’s strictures on Court preachers. — Bourda- 
LOUE IN GREAT DISTRESS 133 

CHAPTER XH. . 

The LIGHT IN which preachers were regarded. — Character of 
Louis XIV. — Influence with the Pope and with the Gallican 
Church 160 

CHAPTER XHI. 

Letter from Claude to Bourdaloue. — Severe reproofs por flat- 
tery to the King 160 


CHAPTER XIV, 


PACK 


Claude alone with Bourdaloue. — The latter acknowledges him- 
self WRONG, AND REQUESTS ClAUDE’s ASSISTANCE IN HIS SERMON. 

Beads it to Claude. — The latter begins to dictate a peroration. 168 


CHAPTER XV. 


Arrival of Father La Chaise. — He gives his opinion of the ser- 
mon. — Bourdaloue’s uneasiness 1'75 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Father La Chaise startled. — He departs, and Claude continues 
HIS DICTATION i 183 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Bourdaloue remains alone. — Commits to memory and recites his 
peroration. — Bossuet hears and approves of it. 187 


CHAPTER XVHI. 


Louis XIV. — Madame de Montespan. — The Duke du Maine. — Bos- 
suet AGAIN WITH THE KiNQ. — DEPARTURE OF MaDAME DE MoNTESPAN. 191 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Bourdaloue and Bossuet. — Distinguishing peculiarities of the 
Protestant pulpit. — Pulpit eloquence 211 


CONTENTS, 


IX 


CHAPTER XX. 

PAOK 

Influence op the peivate chaeacter of the preacher uion ms 
HEARERS. — Memorizing. — Extemporization. 220 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The life, eloquence, and reputation of Bourdaloue. — Massillon. — 
Abbe Maury. — Bridaine 232 

CHAPTER XXH. 

Second council of the PmLosoPHERS. — Claude on the study of the 
Scriptures and the choice of texts. — Poetic beauty and simpli- 
city OF THE Bible. 249 

CHAPTER XXIH. 

Claude on the sublimity of the scriptural ideas of death and the 
NOTHINGNESS OF MAN. — FOURTEENTH CHAPTER OF ISAIAH. . . 266 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

The uneasiness of Bourdaloue and Bossuet. ........ 278 

CHAPTER XXV. 

The royal chapel of Versailles. - 286 


X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XXVL 

PAGE 

The struggles of Bourdaloue and the vacillation of the King. . 291 


Bodrdaloue’s sermon. 

CHAPTER XXVH. 


CHAPTER XXVHI. 


The sermon is at length over. 803 

TWO EVENINGS AT THE HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


Bossuet. . . . 

CHAPTER L 


CHAPTER H. 


Cotin.. . 


828 


BIOGRAPHICAL 

SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


Tub life of a contemporary man of letters, a simple minister in the 
church of Geneva, can, of course, afford no spirit-stirring events. Nor, 
in default of materials for political or historical interest, is the biographer 
at liberty to reveal those secret chronicles of the mind, to record those 
mighty, mysterious strifes and triumphs on the heart’s silent battle field, 
the narrative of which is often more thrilling far, and more instructive, 
than a nation’s annals or the doom of heroes ; discretion must draw her 
veil over the bosom-feelings of one who lives amongst us. Yet, Avhen 
works have fascinated the attention, a natural desire is felt to know 
something of their author; curiosity and gratitude are alike excited 
lespecting one who has increased our intellectual store ; soothed, per- 
haps, the languor of disease, or charmed our grief away : and, if fact bo 
not at hand to show the moral portraiture we demand, fancy will do 
her sober sister’s task, and embody our vague conjectures and presenti- 
ments in a form of her own. The present slight sketch offers, therefore, 
no apology for its meagreness and monotony ; it comes in response to 
a pressing appeal for correct information respecting the author of “ The 
Preacher and the King,” “ The Priest and the Huguenot,” works which 
have captivated a public not often seduced to bestow its favor on foreign 
candidates for literary fame. 

Laukence Louis Felix Bungener was born at Marseilles, the 29th 
of September, 1814, the eventful year which, by banishing the Corsican 
to Elba, was to begin for France a new era of peace and prosperity. 
Though his cradle was thus set on one of the high places of voluptu- 
ousness and bigotry, happily for him it was rocked by parents, whose 
2 (xi) 


xii 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


Protestant principles and purity of life guarded him from such noxious 
influences ; and the young Provencal, soul-inspired but not soul-sub- 
dued, drew unharmed his witching natal air. Prom his father, a native 
of Heddesdorf, near Neuwied, in Rhenish Prussia, he has inherited the 
contemplative habits, the depth of feeling, the steadfastness and honesty 
of purpose eminently German ; from his mother, a Swiss Vaudoise, the 
shrewd sense and contempt for conventionalities which characterize her 
countrymen. 

“ The child was father to the man,” and, doubtless, many interesting 
indications of the early bias of his mind might be gathered, did not the 
silence of death sit on his parents’ lips, and modest reserve seal his own. 
This much, however, is known, that the poetry of nature was not unfelt, 
and that the voice of the deep, whether heard in the hoarse roar of the 
surge, lashing the shore in its fury, or in the gentle murmuj; of the wave 
dying at his feet, had more charms for the. meditative boy, than the gay 
sports of his comrades. The wild rock scenery of Marseilles was also 
his delight, and to the remembrances of his long, solitary rambles amid 
its drear magnificence, may surely be ascribed some of the finest pas- 
sages of “ The Priest and the Huguenot.” 

The consecration of a new Protestant church in 1825, was the spark 
which finally kindled into flame the latent energies of the eleven years 
old lad ; he composed a sermon on 1 Corinthians, viii, 6, One God^ the 
Father^ of whom are all things, and we in him. It providentially fell into 
the hands of his pastor, M. Mouchon, of Geneva, whose discerning eye 
hailed in it the premature spring of a fruitful and glorious year. That 
venerable man strongly urged upon the Protestant consistory, the 
duty of enabling a youth of promise so rare to prosecute the studies 
from which he would otherwise be debarred by his parents’ scanty means. 
The consistory accordingly resolved on defraying young Bungener’s 
expenses at the College of Marseilles, and thus, to their honor be it said, 
laid the foundation-stone of the noble Protestant beacon and bulwark 
since erected by this able controversialist. 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. xiii 

From 1826 to 1832, he remained in his native city, yearly carrying off 
from that mistress of education,” as Pliny styled her, the highest prize, 
{leprix (T excellence,) the reward of merit, whieh is adjudged in eaeh class 
to the student most distinguished for general conduet and progress. 

In 1832, he was sent to study for the ministry in the far-famed metrop- 
olis of continental Protestantism, and exchanged the blue Mediterranean 
and its romantie shores for the blue Leman and its banks, no less fair 
in their different style of beauty. Two years were devoted at the Uni- 
versity of Geneva to the preparatory study of philosophy, mathematies, 
and the scienees, previous to entering on his course of theology, which 
he terminated in 1838. 

He had studied as a Frenchman, and under the idea of exercising his 
holy office in his native land ; but on the eve of taking orders there, it 
was discovered that, owing to the omission in their due time of certain 
formalities, he was not entitled to the rights of a French citizen. He 
accordingly returned to Geneva, and was ordained there in 1839. 

To no single cause, perhaps, is Geneva more indebted for the general 
diffusion of knowledge and its intellectual activity, than to the readiness 
which its eminent men have ever shown, in communicating to the public 
their literary and scientific treasures, in series of lectures, that are eager- 
ly attended by old and young. M. Bungener followed the custom of 
the country, and gave, in the winter of 1839-40, a course of lectures, 
subsequently published under the title of “ Essay on Modern Poetry.” 
Of this production the author is wont to speak in terms of disparage- 
ment his friends ill can brook. If it do not exhibit the critical acumen 
and the brilliancy of its successors, still it evinces a high moral and re- 
ligious sense, as well as much delicacy of discrimination. If it open no 
new path for thought, it is serviceable by clearing the old ones, and ren- 
dering them more easy of access. 

It was the ardent wish of the pious woman to whom he was soon 
after united, that her husband should especially devote himself to min- 
isterial duties, with a view to obtaining a pastoral charge. But Ivt. Bun- 


XIV 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


gener, though ever disposed to preach, considered his vocation as more 
literary than clerical, and accepted in 1843 the office of head master of 
the college, for which his extensive classical studies had eminently fitted 
him. He continued at this arduous post till the close of 1848, when the 
new Radical Government thought proper to dismiss him and several 
other professors for the high crime and misdemeanor of conservatism. 
The injustice was keenly felt at the time ; since, however, M. Bungener 
has been led to consider it as a special boon, by the leisure thus afforded 
him for the prosecution of his own immediate literary and religious 
studies. 

“ Literary studies,” says a great French critic, “ by necessitating the 
solution of problems the most diverse, form admirable intellectual gym- 
nastics. Fortified by this trial, our faculties apply themselves Avith suc- 
cess to every department of science. The mind, fashioned by them to 
command language, finds in language itself an auxiliary to the develop- 
ment and analysis of thought; for it must not be forgotten that the art of 
writing and speaking does not serve solely to express the ideas we have 
conceived, but to define those which are still confused, barely sketched 
in our consciousness, and which have not yet acquired complete evi- 
dence in our own eyes.” Sensible of this, M. Bungener has studied his 
native tongue with an impassioned perseverance which recalls the Pe- 
trarchan fervor that bmmed in mediaeval research. To the philologer’s 
^".erudition and the sagacity of the philosopher, he has added the poet’s 
imagination. He has examined the subject in all its length, breadth, 
and depth ; not a shadow or variation of turning has escaped an eye, 
vigilant alike to signalize an etymological discovery, a new image, or a 
moral truth. To borrow one of his own fine metaphors, he has sought 
in the recesses of the tomb where they lie in all* their glory, and borne 
iff triumphant the giant armor of the mighty masters of language. 
Of them he has learned to conciliate number and precision, — a difficul 
ty greater far than is generally imagined. Too often precision is pur- 
chased at the expense of number, or number at the expense of pre- 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


XV 


cision. To round a period without effacing the outline of thought, the 
art of writing must have been deeply studied ; and deeply has he stud- 
ied it in the classics of every age and clime, but chiefly in those immor- 
tal productions of the seventeeth century which are most akin to his 
genius. 

Asa professor, M. Bungener had early felt the importance, the imper- 
ative necessity of never uttering a thought but in its precisest form, and 
his oral teaching is remarkable for its fulness of subject matter and 
terseness of style, f His words, of which none are idle, remain graven, as 
it were, in the memory. As a preacher he has ever been highly valued by 
those who ask only for their understanding to be enlightened, their con- 
science to be convinced, and care not to be emotionized. He never 
seeks after eloquence, but it, not unfrequently, meets him on the way as 
the (companion of truth. So imbued is he with the principles set forth 
in this volume, and so complete is his mastery of thought and language, 
that it is often impossible to perceive whether he is improvising, or re^ 
citing from memory a written discourse. 

At a time when the detestable doctrines of the French Socialists were 
actively insinuating themselves among the lower classes in the insidious 
shape of romance, M. Bungener delivered a sermon, which created a 
great sensation, on Proverbs xxii. 2, “ The rich and poor meet together^ 
the Lord is the Maker of them all^ To this sermon, with another on 
Peace, was awarded, in 1850, the prize offered by a French Society (the 
funds of which are chiefly supplied from English sources) for the best 
popular religious publications. 

It was not, however, till the month of March of 1853, that hrs talent 
as a preacher was thoroughly revealed, by that rare union of regu- 
larity in the construction and freedom in the development ot the plan, 
which is the grand problem of pulpit eloquence. The occasion has 
been explained by his own pen in the Preface to the volume of Confer- 
ences published in the May following. 

“ The attacks on Protestantism and its principles have assumed, 


xvi 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OP THE AUTHOR. 


within the last few years, a fresh development ; Romanism has made un- 
heard-of efforts to conceal the breaches effected in it by the spirit of the 
age, and especially by the spirit of the Gospel. Of these Geneva has 
had a large share. She has been calumniated in her faith and story 
with an audacity that seemed impossible in our days, and the very ex- 
cess of which rendered refutation unnecessary. 

“In the beginning of this year, however, after Romish discourses 
more than usually violent, many asked if the moment were not come to 
take some step. The consistory, after deliberate examination, decided 
that Conferences should be preached, in which the principles of the Re- 
formed Faith should be confronted with those of Rome. It requested 
the company of pastors to designate the clergymen for this office. It 
also decided that these discourses should be delivered on the Sunday 
and Wednesday evenings, at 7 o’clock, in the Magdalen Church. They 
began the 6th of March. Such was the affluence, that the following 
week a second church was opened, that of St. Gervase.” 

The first of these six Conferences, styled in the index, “ the History 
of the Reformed Faith,” i. e. the Historical justification or the Reforma- 
tion, was preached by M. Bungener, from Genesis i. 3, “ God said, Let 
there be light, and there was light’^ It is a masterly condensation of the 
causes, mental and material, that brought about the Reformation. He 
showed what was fermenting in all minds towards the close of the fif- 
teenth century, when “ it was still chaos, but the Spirit of God was be- 
ginning to move upon the face of the waters ; when the new Genesis was 
at its second verse, and the Lord with his mighty hand was going to 
write the third.” He showed how, from century to century, in all classes 
and in all conditions, arose to heaven the eternal anguish-cry of the 
human heart, oppressed with sin and sorrow, feeling its need of a Saviour, 
and the utter powerlessness of man’s appliances to relieve and succor ; 
and they who were privileged to hear will never forget the thrilling ac- 
cents of his holy eloquence. 

The effect of this discourse was unparalleled. This one briliant dis- 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. Xvii 

play of oratorical genius triumphantly established M. Bungener’s fame 
at home, on that proud eminence to which his works had long exalted it 
abroad. 

Since then he has twice preached on solemn occasions ; on Easter-day 
and on the great fast-day in September, wielding each time with equal 
power the sword of the Spirit, and forcing on the soul its need of par- 
don and peace. And truly, to use his own words, “ earth offers no 
grander sight than that of the sacred orator chasing before him his fel- 
low-men, narrowing at each step the space in which he permits them to 
move, till he has hemmed them, breathless, between the law that eon- 
demns and the cross that saves.” No one is more successful in conquer- 
ing the attention of a densely crowded auditory, and in subduing it to 
his will. And here I am involuntarily reminded of the imagery by 
whieh he describes a kindred eloquence. But if, like the illustrious 
Jesuit, he advances, beating down with serried array of argument the 
desperate wiles marshalled by the heart against truth ; like the Eagle of 
Meaux, of eloquence more kindred still, he soars aloft, bearing on wing 
sublime the contrite, pardoned, and rejoicing spirit up to the very gates 
of heaven. 

The extraordinary development of M. Bungener’s power in the pul- 
pit must unquestionably be ascribed to affliction and its sanctifying in- 
fluences. When we feel alone on earth, then it is we cling closely to 
our heavenly Father’s hand; it is sorrow, not joy, that makes us 
seek after communion with him — and is not communion with God 
— prayer — the very nerve of preaching? Till. 1851, he had not 
known the solitude of the heart ; then he lost the admirable woman, 
whose elevated character he had portrayed in the Madeleine of 
“ The Priest and the Huguenot.” “ She it was,” says Bruyn, “ who 
taught me to keep my eyes fixed on heaven. Never did the con- 
templation of divine things raise me so high that she had not already 
preceded me on the summits of faith, and that she did not stretch forth 
her hand to assist me to a yet higher elevation.” 

2 * * . 


Xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 

The following is the order of M. Bungener’s publications, w’ith their 
names in French and English ; — 

Un Sermon sous Louis XIV., . . The Preacher and the King, . . ]843 

Le CoBcile de Trente, . . . The Council of Trent, . . 1846 

Trois Sermons sous Louis XV., . . The Priest and the Huguenot, . 1848 

Voltaire et son Temps, . . . Voltaire and his Times, . . 1850 

Julien, ou la Fin d’un Si^cle, . . Julian, or the End of an Age, . 1853 

If to these ten volumes, in the space of ten years, we add occasional 
pamphlets, (some very remarkable,) three courses of public lectures, 
academical teaching, literary lessons in public and in private, sermons 
preached, committees attended, reports drawn up, publications corrected 
and edited, we cannot fail to form a high estimate of the energies, intel- 
lectual and physical, of a man who, doing all this, has yet found time to 
cultivate the social and domestic charities. 

A few words may be permitted, in conclusion, respecting the general 
character of M. Bungener’s works. All bear witness to their threefold 
origin ; the wit and fancy of Provence are there to shape the precious 
blocks hewn in the Swiss and German quarries. This is not the place 
to discuss the oft-agitated question how far fiction is allowable in such 
works ; let us rather admire the exquisite skill with which, restoring some 
grand historic scene, the artist has dipped his pencil in her glowing tints, 
not to violate all the rules of moral perspective, and confuse ail our 
preconceptions, but to revive what has paled, to bring anew into relief 
what has sunk beneath the hand of time, and, in sublime earnest, to ren- 
der once more instinct with life the illustrious dead. 

Thousands had stood before the dying gladiator, and admired the 
sculptor ; but, till the poet came, who had seen aught beyond the mere 
physical agonies of death 1 "Wlio had seen that his eyes 
“ Were with his heart, and that was far away ? ” 

But who, now, that sees not the whole touching picture drawn by the 
poet — the rude hut by the Danube — the Dacian mother — the young 
barbarians all at play, while he, their sire . . . ? And to whom does 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


xix 


not the sublime, “Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire !” seem his own 
avenging suggestion 

This is what M. Bungener has done by the admirable groups that en- 
rich the historic gallery of his native land. He has seen, for instance, 
in Claude, the Christian energy to grapple with sin in high places; in 
Bourdaloue, the aching consciousness of paltering with duty ; and, with 
these two suggestives of incident that had escaped the vulgar gaze, com- 
bined with what all saw of weakness in Louis the Great, and of might 
in him of Meaux, he has brought before us a picture, so true to nature 
in all its parts, that we at once admit its retrospective divination. In 
otlicr words, what the poet has furnished to the historian is in harmony 
so perfect, in keeping so complete with the rest, that the happiest, bold- 
est inventions wear all the semblance of faithful narrative. We read on 
and on, and caress the thought, perchance, that we too could have done 
as much had we but possessed the requisite documents. Self-flattery, 
indeed ! but the proudest of triumphs for the author, proving, as it does, 
that truthfulness of conception and ease of execution, which attest the 
hand of genius. 

Truthfulness in the design, truthfulness in the details, truthfulness, 
from first to last, reigns supreme in M. Bungencr’s productions. Nor 
does las accuracy ever degenerate into frigid correctness. No author 
imparts a reality more vivid to his impersonations : they are not mere 
ideas, dressed up like men and women, but living creatures of flesh and 
blood; not “chilling cold” snow'-creations, such as those wnich were 
the despair of Laila’s dreary solitude. Whether he conducts us to the 
splendors of Versailles, ushering us into the presence of him who per- 
vaded all with his majesty; whether we pace up and down with him the 
Philosophers’ walk, listening to the eloquently pious discoursas there ; 
or, whether we draw our breath trembling at the dread conflict engaged 
hefw >*‘11 the Preacher and the King, we yield ourselves to the magic illu- 
sion, with the unreasoning, intuitive confidence, which the truthfulness 
of genius never fails to inspire. 


XX 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


In “ The Preacher and the King” Ave are presented with .Versailles 
only ; in “ The Priest and the Huguenot,” the circle has widened to em- 
brace Paris and the Desert ; but the centre idea remains, the confronta- 
tion of Popery and Protestantism in their most distinguished religionists, 
and in their respective influence on men and manners. Rabaut and Bri- 
daine inherit the interest inspired by Claude and Bourdaloue. The 
change which has come over the face of the nation, since the mighty 
hand of Louis XIV. has ceased to stem the torrent of corruption with 
decorous church conventionalities, is well shown in the Philosophers’ 
saloons of D’Alembert and his motley crew, that have succeeded to the 
Philosophers’ walk of Bossuet and his dignitaries. Here M. Bungener 
has amply proved his French extraction, and lighted up his pages Avith 
that brilliant Avit, Avhich cannot be denied his countrymen. But, hoAV- 

I 

ever he may seem to linger while he culls an anecdote or records a dis- 
cussion, Ave feel that he is pressing forAvard to the mark ; that his aim is 
not to make a book, but to prove from history the intimate connection be- 
tAveen Popery, infidelity, and proffigacy ; to show what were those men 
whom Rome tracked like wild beasts, whose blood she shed like Avater 
upon the scaffold, when, more merciless still, she did not consign them 
to the life-long horrors of the infamous oar. In a Avork so admirable as 
a Avhole, it may seem invidious to detach, as especially fine, any one 
passage. Yet some there are so pathetic, so thrilling, so magnificent, 
that they force themselves upon the memory. Who, for instance, can 
forget the Cevenol’s narrative of his treachery; Rabaut’s visit to the 
tower of Constance ; or that of Bridaine to the Galas family ? Who, 
the struggle in the royal libertine’s conscience, between the awful voice 
of the man of God, and the steady, serpent eye of the man of Loyola ? 
Or who, the touching monologue of the venerable missionary, on the 
eve of preaching before all Paris in the Church of St. Sulpice 7 Above 
all, Avho can forget the sublime Dantean vision Avhich discloses to those 
aged, overcome with pious vigils, the fearful on-coming doom of suicidal 
France 1 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


XXI 


M. Bungener’s latest work, “Julian, or the Close of an Age,” termi- 
nates, as its name implies, his series of studies on the eighteenth centu- 
ry. Embodied in the story of one, lofty in intellect and pure in heart, 
who breathes unscathed the pestilential atmosphere that slays, at his side, 
its thousands and tens of thousands, it is an eloquent development of 
the prophetic denunciation : They have sown the wind and shall reap the 
whirlwind. In these volumes, the author’s circle has widened still from 
Paris, Versailles, and the Desert, and we are presented with a vast pan- 
oramic view of the whole eventful horizon, from the same central idea, 
the contrast between the religion of Christ’s vicar and the religion of 
Christ. Nowhere, perhaps, can be found a more convincing proof of 
the power of Holy Writ to console the afflicted heart and illumine 
the benighted soul, than in the story of the Mauriac brothers. We envy 
not those who can peruse without emotion the faded lines penned in his 
precious Bible by the aged prison-worn minister, or the record contained 
in the twin volume found in his brother’s coffin. Pages like these out- 
weigh whole tomes of controversial divinity. Many and eloquent as 
are the French writers on their first Revolution, still no one has taken the 
high Scriptural ground whence we discern with M. Bungener the earli- 
est indications of that approaching storm, as yet unseen, unfelt, but 
which, ere long, was to pour its avenging vial upon the self-devoted 
heads of “ king, queen, people, courtiers, philosophers, apostles of liber- 
ty, apostles of despotism, upon the false and the faithful, upon men of 
genius and men of nought,” — upon a whole nation, in short, novf drunk 
with the wine of the wrath of God., as in times past it had been drunk with 
the blood of his saints. 

They who have read “ The Priest and the Huguenot,” will rejoice to 
meet with names they had learned to love and admire. Rabaut reap- 
pears with a track of glory, which reminds one of the angel-visitant at 
the Bethesdan pool ; and, verily, his kindred errand is to move the wa- 
ters of life. His reply to the letter in which his son, Rabaut St. Etienne, 
last nominated to the presideney of the National Assembly, says : “ The 


XXll 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 


President of the National Assembly is at your feet,” is a truly apostolic 
epistle, indignantly repudiating the false liberty then courted, and pro- 
claiming that with which Christ makes free. 

But were all the remarkable passages to be enumerated, and an at- 
tempt made to give an outline of the work, this brief sketch would ex- 
pand into another volume. ' Suffice it to say, that all which has charmed 
in the other productions of M. Bungener’s pen, is yet developed and 
strengthened in Julian. In addition to the high political, religious, and 
historical interest of the scenes through which he passes, our liveliest 
S3’^mpathy is excited for Julian himself; and if we do not turn impa- 
tiently over the pages which separate us from his own personal narrative, 
it is the greatest proof of the author’s power of bending the reader to 
his will. 

French literature, as is well known, is of the poorest in productions 
that number moral purity among their merits. French Protestants owe, 
therefore, a deep debt of gratitude to an author who has invested the 
stern religious teaching of history with more than the attraction of ro- 
mance, and enriched their libraries with volumes, the perusal of which 
never tires. 

“The Council of Trent,” and “ Voltaire and his Times,” from the na- 
ture of their subject, cannot hope to be equally popular with his other 
w'orks ; but they are imperishable monuments of M. Bungener’s marvel- 
lous power of wielding and arranging the gigantic mass of material that 
his patient sagacity of research has accumulated. Many pages of his 
Council forcibly remind of the flashing irony, the witty logic of Provincial 
Letters, and Julian discloses a yet stronger affinity with the Pascal of the 
sublime Thoughts. 

To conclude, unalarmed lest I should be accused'of what Mr. Macau- 
lay happily names the Furor Biographicus, I venture to affirm that there is 
no Frenchman who has produced aught that can be paralleled with M. 
Bungener's series of works, for the rare combination of creative power, 
learning, wit, sense, and piety. 


INTEODUCTION. 


In complying with the wish of the translator of this 
work, that I should preface it with a few remarks, to 
indicate its character and purpose, I greatly regret that 
I am not in possession of more particular information 
as to the author. He is a minister of the Eeformed 
Church of France, but, I believe, has not held a pas- 
toral charge, and although — as his works prove — a man 
of truly original powers, and with clear conceptions as 
lo the dignity and duty of the Pulpit, has not for some 
reason attracted much attention as a preacher. In this 
respect, he is only another example of a fact not un- 
common, that the ideal and the actual are not always 
combined in the same person, and that an admirable 
power of criticism does not ensure an equally admirable 
power of execution. 

The following work has attained a wide popularity 
among those who use the French language ; having 
reached the 13th edition. Another work of the same 
character, the subjects of which are taken from the sub- 
sequent reign of Louis XY., has even a greater popu- 
larity ; and coming down into the age of the Encyclo- 


X 


INTRODUCTION. 


pedists, lias afforded tlie writer an opportunity of em- 
ploying the graphic power he possesses in so eminent a 
degree, in presenting strong portraits of the men who 
figured in that age of enfeebled superstition, systematized 
infidelity, and shameless corruption of manners. Should 
the present work meet the favor of American readers 
which it deserves, the other will be laid before them in 
due time. The “ History of the Council of Trent,” by 
the same author, is a work of a different kind but of 
great merit, as a succinct narrative of the essential 
characteristics of that period. 

The book now presented to the public might well be 
left to speak for itself. Its objects and merits will need 
no endorsement when they are examined by the class 
of intelligent readers for whom the work is intended. 
It is substantially a work on eloquence, especially sa- 
cred eloquence, and none the less worthy of respectful 
attention, because its criticisms are embodied in a spirit- 
ed narrative, embracing occurrences and persons which 
belong to the actual history of that extraordinary era. 
The slight thread of fiction by which the disquisitions 
are held together, instead of injuring the effect of the 
work as a contribution to sacred rhetoric, imparts a 
life-like air of reality to the whole ; and, as a repro- 
duction of the men and manners of the time, will entitle 
the author to rank with other great masters in this line. 
He has diligently studied not only the written produc- 
tions of that wonderful age (justly called the Augustan 
age of France), which have come down to us in the form 
of works in divinity and general literature, but he has 


INTEODUCTION. 


XI 


made a careful use of the Memoires''* which abounded 
in that, as they have in every other period in the history 
of the French people. Some one has remarked, that 
there is a strong individualism in the French character, 
which inclines every man to regard himself as a centre 
of his own times and of sufficient importance to warrant 
a record of the relations between himself and public 
events and persons. To this feeling, probably, is owing 
the fact that no nation is so rich in those biographical 
memoirs which are the materials for general history, and 
out of which a judicious writer may cull notices of inci- 
dents and individuals, which, when well arranged, repro- 
duce the “ time” more effectually than can be done by 
those stately generalizations which often pass under the 
name of history. As in individual, so in national history, 
details are necessary to accurate knowledge: they are 
the strands which make the web. Our author has evi- 
dently made himself well acquainted with the depositories 
of these details, and is indebted to them for many facts, 
which, if I am not mistaken, will modify the common 
judgment in respect to some points, concerning which 
a sort of traditional but not well-authenticated notion 
pervades our literature. The letters of Mad. de Sevign^, 
the memoirs of the Due de St. Simon, Cardinal Baus- 
set’s memoirs of Bossuet, Saint Beuve, and many others, 
well sifted and compared, furnish the best data for an 
estimate of that most remarkable age, some previous 
knowledge of which is necessary to a satisfactory peru- 
sal of this work. 

The author has chosen, as a centre of movement, the 


Xll 


INTEODUCTION. 


circumstance of a sermon to be delivered by tbe Court 
preacher Bourdaloue — ^tben in tbe height of his fame — 
before Louis the Great, in the Court chapel, on Good- 
Fridaj. The narrative commences by a dialogue in the 
garden at Versailles between the Marquis de Fenelon 
(one of the purest men of that day, and well known for 
his partiality to the Jansenists of the Port-royal), and 
his nephew, the Abbe Fenelon, afterwards celebrated for 
his writings, some of which have secured a permanent 
place in the literature of subsequent times. The conver- 
’^sation turns on the state of the Court morals ; and the 
Marquis, evidently no courtier, condemns severely the 
. evil example set by the monarch, then living in uncon- 
cealed adultery with Madame de Montespan. We must 
refer to the memoirs of the time for the details ; which, 
however, are referred to in the narrative, no farther than 
as they furnish occasion for the introduction of the sub- 
ject of Court preaching and Court preachers, especially 
Bossuet and Bourdaloue ; the latter of whom is the next 
day to preach before the King. The Marquis and his 
nephew, while conversing on the subject, overtake a 
party walking in one of the avenues, which proves to 
be “the Philosophers;” a term of very different mean- 
ing from that in which it was employed in the subse- 
quent reign. In this case, “ the Philosophers''' were Bos- 
suet, Flechier, Eenaudot, Fleury, Langeron, and others, 
chiefly ecclesiastics; but in the last instance, Voltaire, 
Helvetius, Holbach and others, sworn enemies of all 
religion. 

When the F^nelons join the party, they are discuss- 


INTEODUCTIOK. 


xili 

ing a grand passage in Isaiah, which furnishes occasion 
for some excellent criticism ; but the Marquis and Bos- 
suet separating from the group, the former delicately but 
firmly speaks to the latter of the private as well as pub- 
lic fidelity due from the professed ministers of God, who 
are called to deal with the royal conscience. In short, 
Bossuet is roused to do his duty, and in the course 
of his endeavor to persuade Bourdaloue to seize the 
next day’s opportunity of preaching before the King, 
for the purpose of bold and faithful remonstrance, we 
are presented with a number of well-drawn portraits of 
men, and discussions of principle, which give the reader 
a high opinion of the author’s discrimination of char- 
acter, and of his perception of the true uses of the sacred 
office. 

If the agitations of Bourdaloue at the prospect of 
speaking directly to the conscience of the King, be 
thought exaggerated in the description, it must be 
recollected that the monarch in question was regard- 
ed and addressed by those around him as a sort of 
demi-god. In this adulation, alas ! the clergy were 
not the most backward: not even those whose dis- 
courses have come down to us as models of Christian 
preaching. The English reader who knows Bourdaloue 
and Massillon only by their traditionary renown, and 
through the medium of a translation, cannot fairly 
judge either of their merits or demerits. Not of their 
merits, for the English rendering of their sermons is 
extremely poor (especially Bourdaloue’s by the Eev. 
A. Carrol, revised by the Eev. B. M ‘Mahon), while 


XIV 


INTKODUCTION. 


their chief demerit is carefully concealed by the omis- 
sion of the false and misplaced flatteries which they 
were not ashamed to address to the very face of the 
King. When we know what this King was in morals, 
how greedy in ambition, how wasteful in the expen- 
diture of the treasures which were wrung from his 
oppressed people, how reckless of the blood he shed by 
BO many unjust wars, it seems difiicult to reconcile the 
fulsome adulations of a Bourdaloue with the supposition 
of common honesty. In the English translation these 
destructive flatteries are omitted by the Koman Catholic 
translator, who says, “the ingenious compliments to the 
King of France, which, in the original, are tacked to 
some of these discourses, are here left out — and for this 
the translator scarce need apologize.” With all the ad- 
miration of Bourdaloue entertained by the author of 
the work now submitted to the reader, he cannot sup- 
press this fact of a gross and almost inexplicable contra- 
diction between the preacher’s principles and his failure 
to apply them. It cannot be denied that he lauds in- 
stead of smiting the image of pride and lust before him, 
in the person of a bad King and a bad man. The very 
sermon, which forms the centre of this liarrative, and 
the conclusion of which is, by a poetic license, repre- 
sented as a triumph of fidelity^ has come down to us 
in the original, deformed by the shameful peroration 
vvhich the story represents him as rejecting with horror. 
Let us make every allowance for the blinding influence 
of the courtly glare which surrounded this King . let 
us admit that, republicans as we are, we may be inca 


INTRODUCTION. 


XV 


pable of estimating the subtle influence of tlie princely 
power and grandeur, which made Versailles a wonder 
of the world ; we must, nevertheless, feel an emotion 
of shame, that the Christian pulpit, the only place 
where truth had a chance of being heard, should have 
betrayed its high trust, and hesitated to condemn 
“ scarlet and purple sins when committed by a scarlet 
and purple sinner.” That the most eminent of the 
French preachers did this in the case of Louis XIV. 
and his successor, admits of no doubt, and the fact 
must always remain an example and a warning of the 
weakness of human principle, even when professedly 
engaged in enforcing Divine laws. 

It is one of the author’s chief merits in this book, 
that he entertains high conceptions of the supreme dig- 
nity of the preacher’s office, and of the obligations of a 
wise but resolved fidelity in announcing and applying 
the truth : and every reader will concede that his intro- 
duction of Claude, and the sentiments he puts into the 
mouth of that noble Protestant, are worthy of the prin- 
ciples which evangelical Protestantism draws from the 
only standard of truth and duty — the Bible. We can 
also distinguish the principles of his ecclesiastical poli- 
ty, in the sturdy tone in which Claude speaks of the 
misdeeds of the King. 

In regard to the questions of sacred rhetoric inci- 
dentally discussed in this work, it is needless to speak, 
as they will speak for themselves. The discussions, to 
say the least, are given in a fresh and lively manner. 
Texts, divisions, Scripture quotation, the delivery of a 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION. 


sermon, wlietlier memoriter, extemporaneous, or hy 
reading — ^tliesfe and kindred questions are treated with 
discrimination. Many of the hints are pregnant, and 
may be suitably applied by the preachers of our own 
day ; for, mutatis mutandis^ human nature is one, as 
truth is one, in all eras and nationalities. 

The reader will find appended to this work an amus- 
ing narrative, by the same author, which he calls “ Two 
Soirees (or Evenings) at the Hotel de Eambouillet.” 
The incident on which it turns, and which is historical, 
is interesting, because it presents a curious picture of the 
frivolous engagements of the great of that era, who could 
turn the solemn function of preaching into an amusement 
for the saloon — and because it was the first occasion on 
which the pulpit talent of Bossuet publicly revealed 
itself. 

As frequent references are made in the following 
work to persons and occurrences with which many 
readers may not be acquainted, it may not be amiss 
to give a summary notice of the principal, which will 
serve to explain the allusions. 

Arnauld, who is more than once alluded to, is 
justly considered one of the most eminent of the cele- 
brated school of Jansenism. By conviction, and, it is 
said, impressed by the dying injunction of his mother, 
he waged a long, but in the end, an unsuccessful war 
with the J esuits. Jansenism, an abortive Protestantism, 
was the natural reaction of the more sober and devout 
minds in the great Romanist corporation, against the 
anti-christian corruptions of faith and practice, of 


INTKODUCTION. xvii 

which Jesuitism was the triumphant advocate. Seri* 
ous persons, who had any natural conscience left, and 
who studied the Bible with any candor, could not but 
revolt at the teachings of the Jesuit casuists. The 
event proved that Jesuitism was the most serviceable 
ally of the Papacy (although Jansenism was not with- 
out its claims in that respect), and hence the oppress- 
ions which ultimately overtook and crushed the Port- 
royalists, of whom Arnauld was a great leader. Their 
approaches towards the principles of the Eeformation 
were easily detected and magnified by their enemies the 
Jesuits, and their too free exposure of the internal cor 
ruptions of the Eomish body naturally called forth the 
animosity of all those (and they were many and strong) 
who profited by those corruptions, and of those who 
could not brook that men of their own Church should 
thus uncover its nakedness to the eyes of Protestant 
Christendom. It is no small testimony to the sincerity 
of these semd-Protestants, that they could so long resist 
the cajolery which was tried to win them from their 
purpose ; and, on the other hand, the persecutions 
which assailed them when they were found uncon 
querable by argument. Their own severity toward the 
Eeformed Church is by no means justifiable ; but it is. 
in part explained by the consideration that some such 
coarse was necessary to defend themselves against the 
suspicion of being at heart Protestants. 

Notwithstanding his errors, the reputation of this emi- 
nent scholar, philosopher, and divine, was the greater in 
its influence upon the society, because backed by a life 


INTRODUCTION. 


xviii 

of pure morals. With many, who were neither Jansen- 
ists nor Jesuists in name, his opinions were held in 
profound respect. Hence the author’s reference to him 
in the course of his work. He died in exile, at Brus- 
sells, in 1694, at the great age of eighty -two. 

Claude, who fully deserves the honorable title of 
the Champion of Protestantism, is introduced by our 
author into the current of his narrative, not so much 
for the purposes of dramatic effect, as to afford a chan- 
nel for some doctrines and strictures, which could not 
be so well put into the mouth of any of the other 
actors in the book. He may be regarded as the repre- 
sentative of Protestantism in an age when it had many 
noble men and martyrs to witness to the scriptural 
character of its principles and ethics. The Protestant- 
ism of France was often made a tool of politics, and 
men who loved liberty and hated priestly tyranny more 
than they loved divine truth, arrayed themselves in its 
ranks. That many such, Henry IV. at their head, 
should have yielded their profession when it was their 
interest to do so, is not surprising. Such cases were 
not wanting even in the apostolic era. The Edict of 
JSTantes, which gave a sort of toleration to the Eeformed 
religion, was always unsavory to the Papists, and, as 
at this moment in France, vexatious interruptions and 
prohibitions were frequently practised upon the Prot- 
estants. The Eeformed needed champions to watch 
and defend them, and they found one eminently quali- 
fied in John Claude. During his first settlement at 
Nismes, as Pastor and Professor,- he opposed himself to 


INTKODUCTION. 


X3 ( 


the arts of a recreant of his Synod, who had been 
gained over by the court to attempt a re-union of the 
Eeformed with the Papists. ClaTl.de, the Moderator, 
detected and exposed this artful man, and, as a punish- 
ment, the government prohibited the exercise of his 
ministry in Languedoc. He hastened to Paris to obtain 
redress ; but the attempt was vain. While detained in 
Paris, he was not idle in the good cause. His enemies 
found they had only given him greater notoriety and a 
wider field, for during this interval he wrote a reply to 
a celebrated work of Arnauld’s, on the Eucharist, which 
originated a spirited controversy. 

Claude retired from Paris to Mentauban, where he 
again became Pastor. But, as Arnauld had replied to 
his pamphlet, he employed himself in preparing a re- 
joinder, and had actually sent a portion of it to the 
press, when the Port-royalists discovered the fact, by an 
artifice which it would take too much time to describe, 
and he was silenced at Montauban as he had been at 
Nismes, and the publication of his work suppressed. 
Another triumph of the intolerance which is imbedded 
in the very constitution of Popery, and which no com- 
pacts can long prevent from making itself apparent, 
when it possesses the power to enforce its edicts. Honest 
Eomanists, in our own free land, are fain to admit that 
such is its spirit and purpose. Free inquiry is laid 
under interdict. 

Again he returned to Paris, and after in vain suing 
for justice on the terms of the Edict, he boldly accepted 
the call to the P -esbyterian Church of Paris, which 


XX 


INTRODUCTION'. 


assemb ed at Charenton. Tliis was tlie metropolitan 
Churcli of tlie Protestants, and M. Claude’s influence and 
usefulness to his brethren were greatly increased by this 
important position, which he owed, in one sense, to the 
injustice of his enemies. While here, he engaged in his 
famous conference with Bossuet, the acknowledged giant 
of the Eomanists. Of this man, at first Bishop of Con- 
dom and afterwards of Meaux, it cannot be denied that 
he possessed genius and character ; but neither can it 
be denied that he was an unscrupulous controvertist. 
His most celebrated work is “ The Exposition of the 
Catholic Faith,” of which, one hardly knows which to 
admire most, the absence of candor, or the skill with 
which he appears to approximate to the doctrines of the 
Keformation without really doing so. The book was 
written to reconcile the Protestants, and everything is 
done, which can be done,, by denying that Popery is 
what it is, and affirming that it is what it is not. It has 
been often and ably exposed, and by none more than by 
Claude. In the conference before alluded to, each party 
claimed the victory. Eomanists of our own times — 
Butler and Eustace for instance — ^have declared that 
Bossuet then put an end to Protestantism in France. 
But if the logic of Bossuet were so potent, why the re- 
sort to the logic of bribes, exile, prisons and dragonades ? 

As to the consideration accorded to the character and 
abilities of Claude, even by his enemies, the following is 
an extract from ^''Butler's Life of Bossuet:” “Bossuet 
speaks of Claude’s learning, polite manners and mildness, 
in high terms of praise. He mentions, that throughout 


INTEODUCTION. 


XXI 


the conference, M. Claude listened with patience, ex- 
pressed himself with clearness and force, pressed his 
own objections with precision, and never eluded an 
objection made to him which admitted of an answer.” 
Protestantism survives the logic of M. Bossuet, the 
heavier blows of the “ Bartholomews^^'' and the still more 
destructive “ Revocation 

We owe Claude’s most celebrated work, '‘‘A Defence 
of the Reformation^ to the period of his residence at 
Charenton. But his time was largely employed in 
watching and counteracting the growing schemes of 
the Eomanists, who had long been preparing the way 
for the “ Ee vocation.” He met and foiled their arts 
for a time ; but the thing was determined. Le Tellier, 
Pere la Chaise, and (if his subsequent praises of the act 
of Eevocation be evidence) Bossuet, all employing the 
personal arts and influence of Madame de Maintenon, 
succeeded in inducing the King to sign the order for 
the forcible conversion of his Protestant subjects. The 
methods used to enforce this flagitious act are too famil- 
iar to be detailed here. The result was the unspeakable 
misery of two millions of honest citizens, the forcible 
exile of the Presbyterian ministers, and the voluntary 
but prohibited flight of a vast number, in effecting 
which thousands perished. 

This noble man died in exile at the Hague, at the age 
of 67. Calling for the senior minister of the Church, he 
said, in the presence of his family, “ Sir, I was desirous 
to see you, and to make my dying declaration before you. 
I am a miserable sinner before Cod — I most heartily 


xxii INTRODUCTION 

beseecL. him to show me mercy for the sake of the Lord 
Jesus Christ. I hope he will hear my prayer : he has 
promised to hear the cries of repenting sinners. I have 
diligently studied Popery and the Eeformation : the 
Protestant religion is the only good religion. It is all 
found in the Holy Scriptures : from this as from a foun- 
tain, all religion must be drawn. Our Lord Jesus 
Christ is our only righteousness ; I need no other : he 
is all-sufficient.” 

The sentiments which our author puts into the mouth 
of Claude, the reader will acknowledge as worthy of 
that eminent servant of Christ. 

Fenelon, more distinguished by his personal and 
literary excellencies than as the Archbishop of Cambray, 
is happily introduced by our author, in company with 
his eminent uncle, the Marquis de Fenelon, a man cele- 
brated in the annals of the French wars, and remark- 
able in that corrupt age for his devout and pure char- 
acter. The Archbishop’s history is a tangled web of 
court favors mingled with court frowns. His success 
as the preceptor of the Duke of Burgundy, one of the 
Dauphins, was acknowledged by all as extraordinary, 
considering the natural temper of that Prince. “ He 
was born terrible,” says St. Simon, “ his behaviour 
made all who beheld him tremble.” As a reward for 
his success, he was made Archbishop at a period later 
than that of our story. Coincident with his elevation, 
began that series of persecations which embittered the 
days of Fenelon, and in which the envy of Bossuet for 
the growing reputation of the Archbishop, is declared 


INTRODUCTION. 


xxiii 

to have had a large share. From the whole kingdom 
the latter was receiving the applause due to the man 
who, by training the Dauphin, was preparing for a wise 
and useful reign. This, the “ eagle of Meaux,” could not 
bear. He found, says a historian of the time, “ that if he 
did not pull down Fenelon, he must see himself eclipsed ; 
and hence he became his unrelenting persecutor. The 
disgrace of Fenelon was his real object, but the interests 
of religion was the shallow pretence : no tie, human 
or divine, restrained the prelate of Meaux : but con- 
science, honor, decency, were all set aside, that the ruin 
of his rival might be effected. In order to effect this 
plan, Louis XIV. must act the part of an abject tool, 
and Mad. de Maintenon be guilty of base treachery : 
prelates must contradict their solemn acts, and degrade 
and dishonor themselves : the Abbe Bossuet, the pre- 
late’s nephew, and another ecclesiastic, must circulate 
the grossest falsehoods and the foulest calumnies : the 
Court must sacrifice and throw on the wide world most 
meritorious characters, in order to terrify Kome and in- 
fluence it in its judgment against Fenelon : the empty 
pompous monarch must bully the Pope, to ensure a 
nefarious triumph to the Bishop of Meaux over the 
Archbishop of Cambray.” 

The history of the contest cannot be given here. 
Posterity has vindicated Pension, in giving to him not 
only praise for his genius, but admiration for his sim- 
plicity, humanity, moderation, and charity. While yet 
an Abbe, he was persuaded to be one of the preachers 
sent among the Protestants of Poictou; but he con- 


XXIV 


INTKODUCTION. 


ditioned that all the military should be removed from 
the theatre of his labors. But he himself states, that dis- 
trust, and considerations purely human, occasioned most 
of the conversions ; and that it was to no purpose that 
he had caused all the apparatus of war to be removed 
out of sight of the terrified multitude, since the relations 
of violence in the other provinces filled them with alarm. 
It is not wonderful that to his gentle spirit such occupa- 
tion was disgusting ; he asked to be recalled. 

Pelisson, a name not so well known as some others 
by the general reader, was that of one of the most bit- 
ter and effective agents of the Court in its schemes for 
extirpating the heresy of Protestantism. It may be 
questioned whether this man and Mad. de Maintenon, 
were not more responsible for the horrors of the “ Ee- 
vocation,” and the atrocities which preceded it, than 
any other two of the whole number who were em- 
ployed in smiting this blow at religion, and, as the 
event proved, at France. But Pelisson and Mad. de 
Maintenon were apostate Protestants, and we need not 
be surprised at their malignity towards the faith they 
had abandoned. The first, a lawyer of eminence, a fine 
scholar, and a plausible writer, is called by Bayle, “ one 
of the greatest geniuses of the age.” He felt the con- 
verting influence of court favor, renounced his religion, 
and not long after the period at which our story opens, 
viz., the temporary dismissal, followed by the subse- 
quent restoration of Mad. de Montespan, he was em 
ployed in disbursing a large sum, extorted at the con- 
fessional from the King as the price of his sin, for the 


IFTROD UCTION. 


XXV 


conversion of Protestants. In tliis work, tke apostate 
rejoiced : glad, no doubt, to vindicate the selfishness of 
bis own conversion by proving that money could buy 
others as well as himself. As is commonly the case 
witl interested proselytes, he also wished to establish 
the sincerity of his conversion by the vigor of his zeal. 

He was subsequently implicated in the affairs of 
Fouquet ; and his reputation tarnished by evidences of 
interestedness. He left his accounts at his death in 
great disorder. Although he took orders in the Church 
of Eome, it is doubtful whether he did not die profess- 
ing the faith he had once abjured and persecuted. His 
talents, as we see in our story, raised him to companion- 
ship in the circle of “ the Philosophers.” 

A more infamous apostate and persecutor is found in 
Mad. de Maintenon, the grandchild of Theod. Agrip- 
pa d’Aubign^, and mistress or wife of the old King, 
whom she made her tool ; herself being the tool of 
others. She was the unrelenting foe of the people 
whom she abandoned. At first the teacher of the 
King’s illegitimate children by Mad. de Montespan, 
she afterwards became his counsellor, in what relation 
is doubtful. Her letters tell the share she had in per- 
suading the King to yield to the persuasions of Louvois, 
Le Tellier and others, and extirpate heresy. In the 
first instance, she blames the severity used, but subse- 
quently bravely surmounted her scruples. That she must 
have been fully aware of the severity practised, is evi- 
dent from the advice she gives to her spendthrift brother, 
to whom she sends a grant of one hundred thousand 
2 


XXVI 


INTKODUCTION. 


livres, viz., to invest it in the purchase of lands in 
Poictou : for she adds, “ they will be had there for a mere 
''nothing, on account of the flight of the Huguenots.” 

Such were some of the actors in that wonderful age 
of Louis, miscalled the Great, It is enough to prove 
how faithless to Christianity was the Pulpit, that it 
should not have raised its voice to condemn the cruel- 
ties practised in the name of religion ; that, on the 
contrary, its talent and learning were so often subsi- 
dized to the mean purposes of King- worship. Much as 
may be said of the eloquence of the Pulpit of that time, 
the fact that it omitted to discharge some of its noblest 
functions, ought to deprive it of the super-abundant 
commendation which it has received not only from Eo- 
manists but Protestants. To this day France suffers 
the penalties due to the national crimes of that and 
the next reign, against which the ministers of God 
ought, at least, to have publicly protested. When we 
read the annals of persecution in that kingdom, we can 
interpret the mystery of the successive convulsions 
which have since agitated it. It is retribution. It is 
the verification of the prophetic language of John Knox, 
when the news of the St. Bartholomew's reached him : 

Sentence has gone forth against that murderer the 
King of France, ahd the vengeance of God will never 
be withdrawn from his house.” 


CHAPTER I. 


THE UNCLE AND NEPHEW. COURT NEWS AND COURT MORALS. FASHIONABLE 

PREACHERS. — FENELON’s VIEWS OF BOURDALOUE. 

One day in the beginning of the month of April, 1675, two 
men might have been seen walking in one of the avenues of the 
park of Versailles, at a short distance from the Chateau. One 
of them might have been about sixty-five years of age, the other 
twenty four. The former wore a sword, the latter an abbe’s 
robe. Not to delay longer the mention of their names, the elder 
was the Marquis de Fenelon, formerly lieutenant-general in the 
armies of Louis XIV., and the other his nephew, a young man 
then unknown to fame, but to whose subsequent greatness alone, 
is owing the mention made in history of his ancestors, or his 
uncle. 

The old Marquis de Fenelon was, nevertheless, a man de- 
serving of high respect. After ha\dng acquired the esteem of 
the first generals of his time, by his talents and courage,^ he had 
devoted himself entirely to the observance of the most elevated 
duties of religion and morals; — but, as his life had always been 
pure, and as his piety was not the effect of one of those conver- 

* The great Conde said of him, that he was “ equally skilful in conver- 
sation, in battle, and in the council chamber.” During the period of the 
greatest rage for duelhng, he had dared to put himself at the head of an 
association, the members of which made a vow never to accept nor to send 
a challenge. 


28 


THE TREACHER 


sioA 30 'fashionable in that clay, — it was destitute of the bitterness, 
and of the littleness, which almost always characterized people 
of rank, when after a life of dissipation they returned, or fancied 
they returned, to God.^ A widower for many years, he had had 
the affliction of losing a son of great promise, at the siege of 
Candia in 1669. From that time all his affections were divided 
between his daughter, (afterwards Marquise de Montmorenci- 
Laval,) and the youngest child of the Count de Fenelon his 
brother. The count was still living, but he was happy to resign 
to such a brother some of his parental rights, and those of the 
head of a family. 

At court, where, however, he was but rarely seen, the Marquis 
de Fenelon bore the reputation of a second Montausier. Tins is 
equivalent to saying that the courtiers disliked, although they 
were forced to esteem him. 

On this particular day, however, he was at Versailles. The 
court had just arrived from St. Germain, where it had passed 
the winter. f He had arrived from his estates at Perigord, 
where he had passed his winter, and whither he intended re- 
turning in a short time, — as soon as he had completed the ar- 
rangement of some business either at Paris or Versailles. The 
most important thing was to see his favorite nephew. 

He was, however, neither so Perigordian a nobleman, nor so 
stoical a philosopher, as to take no interest in the news of a court 
which gave tone to all Europe; — particularly, as his nephew, 
being attached to the chapel of the king, was in a position to 
give him the most accurate information. 

* See, in the history of Fenelon, by the Cardinal de Bausset, book i. 
some letters from the marquis to his nephew. They are worthy of ad- 
miration for their gentleness and gravity, their philosophy and their faith. 

f It was not until 1683, that Louis XIV. took up his residence for the 
whole year at Y srsailles. 


AND THE KING. 


29 


They weic? now, accordingly, discussing the news as they 
walked. The Abbe told a story remarkably well, and many of 
the courtiers would have been not a little astonished to find him 
so well-informed in regard to everything. Not that he took the 
least part in the petty intrigues whose thread he so skilfully un- 
ravelled, but he had the art of seeing, and seeing well, and what 
he did not see, he guessed better than any one else. Few men 
have ever better understood the human heart ; it may even be 
said that he excelled Bossuet in this respect. The views of the 
latter weie the grandest, — those of Fenelon had more acuteness 
and ingenuity. “ The first,” says a historian,* “ understood man 
better than he did men the latter, we may add, understood 
man and men ; which, however, does not imply that he was 
never wrong in his judgment. 

After having with alternate vexation and amusement listened 
to the recital of several occurrences with which we have at pres- 
ent nothing to do, the marquis inquired, “ And Madame de 
Montespan, — how does she stand with the king ?” 

“There is nothing new. It was believed there were some 
clouds to be seen — but the king does not seem to grow coolei. 
She reigns in peace.f The whole court is at her feet.” 

“ I hope my nephew has not been seen there,” said the mar 
quis, stopping short, and fixing a scrutinizing gaze upon the 
young man. 

“No, uncle; — you forbade my going.” 

“ Ah ! that is your reason ?” 

“You well know, that I have never disobeyed you.” 

* M. de Barante. 

f A letter was lately discovered in the archives of the city of Perpig- 
ujui, from Louvois to M. de Magneron, iutendaut of Roussillon, in 1667. 
Phe minister enjoins on him to seize all occasions for vexing and ruining 
M. de Montespan, because he had gone into mourning for his wife on the 
occasion of the bii th of her first child by Louis XIV. 

2 * 


30 


THE PREACHER 


“ Yes, but I could have wished, that there had been no need 
for my prohibition, and I am sorry to perceive from your tone, 
that your inclination would lead you to follow the crowd. You 
have obeyed me, --well and good; — but I would not have be- 
lieved, that it would require an effort for my nephew to abstain 
from aiding to increase this woman’s court.” 

“ All the bishops go.” 

“ So much the worse for them and for the church.” 

“ I do not assert that they do right, — but at any rate it would 
have sheltered a poor chaplain from criticism — ” 

“ Court morals, nephew, court morals ! If it is wrong it is 
wrong ; there is no medium. What matters it to me that others 
do not blame you, if I am forced to do so ?” 

The good marquis was right ; yet without excusing the error 
of his nephew, we can understand it. A careful examination of 
the history of this period, shows plainly, that the contemporaries 
of Louis XIV. were, in general, very far from feeling as sensibly 
as one might imagine, the immorality of his conduct. And when 
we speak of contemporaries^ we do not mean to designate pro- 
fessed courtiers only ; — 

“ Cameleon race, who ever ape their lords ”* 

it is evident that they would desire nothing better ; — but this 
prince had the faculty of giving to his most culpable actions, a 
dignity and grandeur by which, it appears that the gravest and 
most, pious men were more or less influenced. 

“ It is the spirit of the age,” said Arnauld, “ even among the 

* See, in the Memoirs of Madame de Motteville, the general astonish- 
ment that the Queen Mother should object to her son’s gallantries. It 
was considered incomprehensible how these should render her uneasy, so 
long as her influence over the young king received no check ; she was 
considered, indeed, vei’y simple not to use this as a new means to confirm 
her power. 


AND THE KING. 


31 


most eiiligh .ened.” lie was, upon the whole, cennired, but not 
as any other man would have been censured. It had become 
quite customary to relate of him, as a matter of course, things 
which related of any other man would have aroused general in- 
dignation. 

Among the hundred letters in which Madame de Sevigne 
speaks of the amours of Louis XIV., scarcely one is to be found 
from wliich it might be inferred, that she did not look upon it all 
as quite irreprehensible, — and yet she is writing to her daughter! 
The scandal which he caused was, so to speak, not real scandal ; 
— the real harm caused by such conduct, is its liability to imita- 
tion, — and we perceive on the contrary, that the morals of the 
court were less depraved in his reign than in those of his prede- 
cessors, — even of his father, — whose prudery was carried to a 
ridiculous excess.* 

It has been asserted that this reformation was only an external 
one. It is true that forms are not of equal. value with princi- 
ples, but it would be easy to prove that principles also were im- 
proved, or at least much modified ; the memoirs of the reigns of 
Francis L, Henry IV., and Louis XIII. do not admit of a doubt 
on this point. Moreover, in matters of this kind, external refor- 
mation is highly important ; in depriving immorality of the 
right to hold high its head, Louis XIV. deprived it of its princi- 
pal attraction in the eyes of the young nobility. 

And if the question now bo asked, how Louis XIV. had the 
power and audacity, while displaying his own irregularities, to 
force every one else to conceal theirs, — we must admit, that it is 
indeed rery strange ; but history is positive upon this point. He 
was looked upon as too exalted for any one to dare take his ex- 
ample as a precedent, “ He is the only pi ince,” says Duclos, 
“ whose example has never been the authority for public morals. 

* Considerations sur les Mmirs. 


32 


THE PREACHER 


No one would liave ventured to say, '• I do as he does' That 
which i}o one ventured to imitate, was respected in him, as the 
pagan sages adored a corrupt and adulterous Jove.” He who 
had carried off a 'vvife from her husband,"^ — boldly undertook to 
rebuke those who did not live regularly. No one seemed to 
contest his right to do this, or, if they did, it was so quietly that 
nothing has come down to us of it, — and in the meantime, they 
obeyed. Moreover, it was no uncommon thing for a father, or a 
husband, or a wife to come to him begging him to administer a 
rebuke to a reckless son, or an unfaithful husband, or a fickle 
wife. And these things took place not in his old age, or even in 
his riper years ; before he had reached the age of thirty, in the 
midst of his irregularities, we already see him playing this part ; 
it only required a word or a look from him, in order to the exercise 
of all that authority of which his vices had seemed to deprive him. 

Thus, the Abbe Fenelon had only shared in the almost univer- 
sal' impression ; few men in France, were capable of escaping so 
completely as his uncle had done from the magic influence of the 
king. He hastened to renew his promise that he would refrain 
from presenting himself to Madame de Montespan. 

“ And the other ?” inquired the Marquis. 

“The other?” 

“ Yes, Madame de la Valliere.”f 

* “ With the frightful commotion, which resounded horribly in the ears 
of nations,” say the memoirs of St. Simon. One would wish, for the 
credit of morals, that this were true, but historically it is false. We do 
not see that there was exih&v fright or horror, there was not eA^en much 
astonishment, for men’s minds were prepared for anything. “ Do you 
know me said the Marquise, one day to a peasant who saluted her. “ 0 
yes, Madame ; is it not you who have the situation of JV^adame de la Val- 
liere ?” The poor imm intended no malice, but his exjjression was per- 
fectly correct. The place of mistress to the king, was as much one of the 
court situations, as that of equerry or confessor. 

f Madame, since the king had made her Duchess of Vaujour. 


AND THE KING. 


33 


“ They say she is still decided to take the veil.” 

“ Yes, so it is. When the world will have no more of you, 
you give yourself to God.” 

“ You are severe, uncle. It appears that her conversion is 
sincere. Monsieur de Condom, (Bossiiet, then bishop of Con- 
dom,) is convinced of it, and you know, that for some time past, 
he has seen a great deal of her.” 

“ He is good security. And then there is pardon for all sin. 
Apropos, is Monsieur de Condom here ?” 

“ Yes, since the day before yesterday. He returned with the 
dauphin.” 

“ I have received a letter in which he is mentioned, and I wish 
to show it to him.” 

“ A letter ?” 

“ From M. Arnauld.” 

“ From M. Arnauld ! Take care. Already they are not on 
tlie best terms.” 

“ And a great pity it is. This letter will probably not recon- 
cile them, — but neither do I believe that it will further divide 
them. And Father Bourdaloue ?” 

The Abbe was surprised that his uncle had not spoken of him 
until this moment. Never before had Jansenist so loved Jesuit, 
as M. de Fenelon loved Bourdaloue."^ The latter, to be sure, 
was scarcely a Jesuit, save in name and dress. The most active 
enemies of his order paid homage, not only to his talent, which 
it would have been ridiculous to deny, but to his virtues, his gen- 

* Except perhaps Boileau. The satirist was very proud of the friend- 
ship of the great orator. 

“ Enfiu, apres Arnauld, ce fut I’illustre de France, 

Que j’estiinai le plus, et qui m’aiina le iiiieux ” 

Tliis “ apros Arnauld” is a little like a confession of faith. Arnauld, like 
Bossuet, never had more than a cold esteem for Boileau. 


34 


THE PREACHER 


tie and amiable qualities; the Port Royal Jesuit^ as he was 
called, had few enemies, save among the members of his own 
fraternity. The intellect of M. de Fenelon was as exacting, as his 
heart was pure and honest ; thus Bourdaloue the reasoner suited 
him as well as Bourdaloue the moralist and Christian. 

“ You will hear him,” answered the Abbe. “ To-morrow is 
Good Friday, and he is to preach before the king.” 

“ I know it, I know it, and for that reason I have come to 
Versailles eight days sooner than I would have otherwise done. 
You laugh ? Well, yes, — I love him.” 

“ I love him also, uncle, — I also ; — only I love him a little less 
than you do.” 

“A little r 

“ You would prefer me to say much .^” 

“ Say it if you think it.” 

“ Here is our old quarrel about to begin again ! I have, 
however, attended his preaching during the whole of this Lent.” 
“ Well?” 

“ I appreciate him better.” 

“ That is very fortunate !” 

“ Yes, but — 

“ Ah ! always a hut P 

“ Always, I am sorry to say. I can but repeat to you what I 
have already said of his faults — ” 

“ He will not abandon them !” 

“ My dear uncle, I am serious. If his Majesty should com- 
mand me to think otherwise, I could not — ” 

“ Stop, stop ! you know I do not like that phrase.. His 
Majesty has nothing to do with the matter.” 

This was, in fact, one of the phrases which adulation had in- 
vented, in order delicately to give the king the highest idea of 
his own power ; it was equivalent to saying that all was in his 


AND THE KING 


35 


power excepting tiie impossible. Even tlie impossible seemed, 
however, sometimes included ; for example, Moliere : — 

Unless a mandate from the king should come, 

To make these verses good. 

If the mandate arrived, then the verses would be good ! It is 
undoubtedly a pleasantry, — but in the mouth of the misan- 
thrope, these words are almost equivalent to a serious assertion. 

“ Well,” said the Abbe, “let us then speak without figure. 
You will not, I think, any more than the king, order me to 
change my opinion. No, — his is not the kind of preaching that I 
like. I want less system and more life, fewer reasons and more — ” 
“ Fewer reasons ! As if it were possible to have too many !” 

“ No, — but it is possible to give too many. Let the preacher 
possess thoroughly the proofs of his doctrines, — the philosophical 
principles of morals, — that is all very well ; let him allow his 
science to be perceived, and give here and there specimens of it, 
— that also is very well, — but something else is required in the 
pulpit. All this may serve to convince, but it is persuasion 
which is needed. 

‘ But in order to persuade, you must first convince.’ 

So said the ancient rhetoricians ; and as they scarcely had any- 
thing in view save legal discussions, they were right. But, uncle, 
'is that what we want ? If we have another end in view, must the 
choice of our means remain subjected to the same rules ? The 
end, that is the great thing. We wish to touch, to regenerate, 
to save, — we cannot save by reasoning !” 

He went too far; but why should we be astonished, that at 
twenty-four he clothed in language somewhat exaggerated, the 
oratorical system which he always professed a little too absolute- 
ly ? We shall have to return to this in the course of our his- 


36 


THE PREACHER 


tory ; let us confine ourselves at present to the remark, that man 
is neither all head nor all heart ; and that the Christian orator 
ought, in consequence, neither to neglect the heart for the head, 
nor the head for the heart. Bourdaloue addressed himself too 
exclusively to the intellect. Fenelon fell into the other extreme, 
and it is, therefore, that he secretly made a rule that he would 
never write his sermons. It is true that he lost less by it than 
any one else would have done ; the abundance of his ideas, — the 
astonishing facility of his elocution, the force of his character, 
all this contributed, with him, to diminish the evils of this 
method, — but it was no reason why he should insist upon ad- 
vising all to follow a method, good at the furthest for himself 
and a few other men of remarkable talent. Let us however, 
add, for the sake of justice, that it is an error which honors him ; 
less really modest, he would have been less peremptory he 
would have comprehended better than any one else, that it 
was folly to exact from all orators, that which could be done by 
himself. 

There was, however, a great deal of justice in this manner of 
regarding the eloquence of the pulpit. “We cannot save by 
reasoning,” he had just remarked ; and truly enough, the more 
the human heart is studied, — provided it be not Tlietorically 
studied, — the more one is astonished to see how really feeble are 
these arms forged by the vulcans of logic with a great noise. 
If we are called upon to use them, we fancy them invincible. If 
it be against us that they are employed, we scarcely feel the 
shock. Many an orator imagines himself striking a terrible 
blow in employing an argument, which he himself may have 
heard twenty times, without experiencing the slightest emotion. 

See his dialogues on eloquence, written about this epocli. In the 
second, particularly, in speaking of improvisation, — it is his own por- 
trait which he traces 



AND THE KING. 


37 


And if it be tbiis in all kinds of eloquence, what will it be in 
that of the pulpit ? You are at least certain that the judge 
before whom you may plead, will decide. It is his duty, his 
calling ; however perplexed he may be, — whatever wish he may 
have to leave the atiair undecided, he cannot. In preaching, it 
is another thing. That which you most have to dread, is, not 
that your hearer will decide against you, but that he will not de- 
cide at all.^ Nothing is easier than to bring him round to your 
opinion, — most frequently indeed, he agrees with you before you 
have opened your lips, — but to bring him seriously to say yes, 
and above all, to remember this yes, and to act upon it, that is 
the difficult, and often, alas ! the impossible point. 

And this, Fenelon, although very young, had known a long 
time, from experience. 

“The passions have a logic of their own,” he continued; 
“ they do not believe themselves in any wise bound to follow tie 
preacher on his own ground. It is a great error to believe one’s 
self victorious because the audience may be unable to find a re- 
ply. Do you know the story of the peasant and the usurer ?” 
“No.” 

“ It is somewhat hackneyed, but good. M. Tronsonf cited it 
to us frequently. A peasant goes one day to a usurer, in order 
to borrow some money of him. The usurer is setting off for 
church. The peasant accompanies him ; the business will be 
transacted upon their return. By chance the sermon turns upon 
usury, — a thundering sermon. They return home after church, 

* “ Bourdaloue would, without doubt, have gained his cause, if he had 
plead it before the councillors of parliament, doing justice at their tribu- 
nal ; but these same councillors, seated before the pulpit of the vehement 
Jesuit, were like different men, and their conduct decided against him 
whom they called ‘ the Thunderer' ” — Observations on Pulpit Eloquence. 
^ f Superior of the Seminary of St. Sulpice. 

4 


38 


THE PREACHER 


and the peasant makes a motion to go away. The usurer re- 
calls him ; he hesitates. ‘ What is the matter V asks the usurer. 
The peasant stares ; ‘ But — ^but — the sermon.’ ‘ Come, come,’ 
cries the usurer, ‘ the Cure has followed his business, why should 
not I follow mine V ” 

“ What does that prove ?” asked the marquis. 

“ Much, uncle, much. It proves, in the first place, what I was 
just saying. Do you suppose that the usurer boasted of having 
anything to reply to the arguments he had just heard? No, 
certainly not ; and nevertheless, he went on his way. What is 
to be concluded from this, if not, that the club of the orator had 
missed the mark? I confess that the story is a little strong, 
perhaps it is not authentic; but what matter ? It is not always 
necessary that an anecdote should be true, to be instructive. 
Besides there are not wanting instances, analogous and but too 
true. Ah ! what bitter discouragement would seize the preacher, 
if, at the close of the sermon, he could read the hearts even of 
those whom he may have supposed to be the most impressed. 
One has retained a striking portrait, — in it he recognizes his 
neighbor, his friend, his enemy, — indeed everybody except him- 
self, and yet — this portrait is — his own ! Another has retained 
some ideas, important, perhaps, and judiciously drawn from the 
ensemble of the discourse, but in which, it does not enter his 
mind to see anything more than ideas, theories ; and it is well 
in fact, if he does not confine himself to rega’ ding them as mere 
phrases.'^ The greater number, indeed, hav( remembered noth- 

* “ One day, in the presence of Balzac, the Abbe de St. Cyran happened 
to touch upon certain truths which he developed with great force. Bal- 
zac, intent upon gaining from this some beautiful thought, to enshrine at 
some future period in a page of his o^vn, could not help exclaiming, 
‘ ITiat is admirable,’ contenting himself with admiring, wi(,hout applying 
anything to himself. ‘ M. de Balzac,’ said the abbc, ‘ is like a man, who, 
standing before a superb mirror, which, showed him a stain on his face. 


AND THE KING. 


39 


ing* at all, and do not even seem to imagine, that any one comes 
Avitli the intention of doing so ; ideas, arguments, images, all 
have passed before them as before a mirror ; you will lind no 
trace left. And the preacher himself, when he has once ascer- 
tained how it is, what zeal, what confidence in God will he not 
need, to hinder him from giving way mechanically to the idea, 
that he preaches only for the sake of preaching, just as the others 
listen for the mere purpose of hearing ! It is true that they gen- 
erally listen with attention, — even with interest, — but the dis- 
course once over, all is over. Then — ” 

“My dear nephew, I will confess, that I have nothing to 
reply to all this, but also, that I am not convinced by it. You 
have reason on your side, am I on that account wrong ?” 

“ And I am not on your side, then ?” 

“ Not at all. A sermon has two objects, and you only men- 
tion one.” 

“ Two objects ?” 

“ Yes. One, a special object, that is to say, an object directly 
connected with the particular subject of the discourse ; which is, 
perhaps, some truth to be believed, or vice to be shunned, or 
virtue to he acquired ; — the other, a general object, more vague, 
but likewise of more grandeur ; — ^it aims at elevating the soul, — 
making it breathe a purer air than that of the earth. Do you 
understand me now ?” 



“ You mean to say, that if I have for instance to preach upon 
lying^ my hearer should go away with two impressions, one. 
relative to lying, and what is faulty in this vice, — the other, 

b1 ould content himself with admiring the beauty of the mirror, without 
removing the stain,’ Balzac was more delighted than ever, with this, and 
forgetting the lesson altogether in his attention to the manner of it, ‘ Ah,’ 
he cried, louder than ever, ‘ that is more admirable than all the rest.’ ” — 
St. Beuve. Port Royal. Booh iii. 


40 


THE PREACHER 


purc.y a sentiment of edification, independent of the subject, and 
the result only of the fact that my discourse is a godly discourse, 
no matter on what subject. Is not that your idea ?” 

“Exactly. One should be able to forget even that you have 
preached upon lying, and yet draw some benefit from your dis- 
course. Well ! all that you have said is true as regards the first 
of my two objects. It is clear, that if pride prevents me from 
recognizing myself in the portrait which you have drawn of the 
liar, your sermon will be useless to me, so far as it is a sermon 
on lying, — but do you not see, that it can still be of service to 
me as an edifying discourse, from the sole fact of having directed 
my mind for a certain length of time upon a serious or Christian 
subject ? And to speak plainly, the more I think of it, the more 
I am persuaded that the results of j^reaching are almost always 
confined to this. I know very w^ell, that many a liar may be 
mentioned to me, corrected by a sermon on lying, and many a 
usurer profitably alarmed by a sermon on usury; therefore I 
have said almost always and not always ; but for one man upon 
whom you may have had the happiness thus to exercise a direct 
or definite effect^ there are a hundred, perhaps a thousand, as it 
may be, upon whom you can only act indirectly and vaguely. 
They came to church without troubling themselves as to the 
subject which you would select, and they leave without trou- 
bling themselves as to the one you have taken, and yet all is not 
lost. \The field has not received or reproduced the particular 
kind of seed which you wished on this day to sow, but it has 
been cultivated, and that is always something.” / 

“ Certainly,” said Fenelon, “ and I am glad^ that ha\dng com' 
menced with an idea so dissimilar from mine, you end by so 
nearly agreeing with me. All that you have just said, I have 
many a time said to myself. It is sad, but true ; what is to be 
done ? And since it is not in our power to have such hearers 


AND THE KING. 


41 


as we would wish, and such as they should he in order that 
preaching should bring forth its proper fruits, let us take them 
as they are given us ; the field is grand enough as it is. But it 
is precisely because the direct object is so often missed, and be- 
cause the object of the sermon is confined for the great majority, 
to a vague impression, for that very reason, I say, I would not 
have the direct effort too much run after, or too much impor- 
tance set on the arguments which seem to conduct thither.” 

“In this sense I grant it; but you will admit also, that it 
would not be well to say this to young preachers. It would 
open too wide a door to vague ideas, amplifications, and dis- 
coursings without order or vigor.” 

“ Possibly. Do you think I flatter myself that I always avoid 
this stumbling-block ? Therefoi-e I should take care never to 
express this idea, without surrounding it by the restrictions 
which I feel it needs. I would never say — ‘ Hasten to quit de- 
tails, in order to launch into general considerations, finish your 
reasoning quickly, in order to come to sentiment.’ But this I 
should say, ‘ Let there be a feeling beneath every one of your 
arguments;^ let edification ever walk hand in hand with in- 
struction.’ You see it is not necessary to proscribe argument 
and proofs, but to arrange, so that in the very probable case 
where the hearer does not recollect these, his heart will preserve 
an impression of them in default of his head. And in this it is, 
that Father Bourdaloue is wanting. If eloquence be the art of 
reasoning,! he is the most eloquent man of the age ; if it be the 
art of touching the soul, I will venture to say, that with far less 
talent, one might be more eloquent than he. You, a grave and 

* “ St. Augustine is touching even when he lays down his points.” — 
Fenklon’s “ Dialogues on Eloquence^ 

f “ He is quite able to convince, but I scarcely know any preacher who 
less persuair >s and touches you.”— Fenelon. Pulpit Eloquence. 

4 # 


42 


THE PREACHER 


learned man, accustomed to follow the thread of an argument, 
and to rietain it the better, the closer it is drawn, you lose noth- 
ing of his sermons, and you are inclined to judge them only the 
more favorably, the more they offer to your memory for reten- 
tion. If I could take upon myself to listen to them in this spirit, 
I should partake of your admiration. But a sermon is for every- 
body. If you would judge of it properly, put yourself in the 
position of the mass of hearers. And, in order to do this, it is 
not enough for you to suppose yourself much less learned than 
you really are. The true characteristic of the mass is, that they 
judge by impression ; now, judge by mere impression, and you 
will have put yourself in their situation, and your judgment will 
start from the only point of view which is proper or true in this 
case. Has not Cicero himself said, that, a discourse which does 
not obtain the approbation of the people, is unworthy of that of 
the learned ? With much more reason then, must we say this 
of a sermon. Once more, put yourself in the place of the mass.” 

“ It is easy to say.” 

“ And still easier to do, be assured. You never hear a sermon 
that you do not do this without suspecting it. Seated in the 
preacher’s presence, there are two men in you ; the well-informed 
man, who is about to decide the discourse to be either well or 
badly written, well or badly delivered, and the natural man, who 
will either open or shut his heart to the impressions of the word 
of God. Well, what I ask of you is, to consult rather the second 
than the first. Ah, we only consult it too much, when it is a 
question of escaping from the consequences of the best established 
truths ; let us then consult it a little, when the matter is, to know 
what the sermon ought to be. Let us consult it in regard to 
Father Bourdaloue’s sermons. All these arguments which vou 
remember so well, Avhat remains if they are forgotten ? Very 
little, you must confess. And how many sermons there are, of 


AXD THE KING. 


43 


which still less would remain, since those who preach them have 
often the same fault, and yet are far from possessing the same 
talent.” 

“But then,” said M. de Fenelon, with a little embarrassment, 
“how is his success to be explained? For really it is not at 
court only that he is loved and admired. Last year, at Paris, 
when he was to preach in the evening, Notre Dame was crowd- 
ed from early in the morning ; when he was to preach in the 
morning, people passed the night in the church. An hour be- 
fore the sermon you would meet thousands going away without 
having been able to enter. I do not see how that agrees exactly 
with your criticism, that he does not preach for the people.” 

“ I said that he failed in the true end ; I have never denied 
that he disjdays in his means, an extraordinary copiousness, art 
and genius. The enthusiasm of the crowd only proves one 
thing to me ; that the crowd like himself, is deceived and takes 
the means for the end. If they knew better what a sermon 
should be, and what effect it should leave behind, they would be 
of my opinion. Believe me, in this respect, we are neither so 
enlightened, nor above all, so christianized as we imagine. Be- 
cause we no longer hear quotations from Horace and Vii-gil, — 
nor the mingling of gods and saints in the sermon, — we are 
ready to felicitate our orators, as if they had entirely succeeded 
in throwing off their profane yoke ; because it is no longer per- 
mitted to make 'points^ and because antithesis is more sparingly 
used, it is believed that there is no more idle exercise of the 
wits, and the good people fancy that they hear everything in the 
world which is most grave and Christian. Father Bourdaloue 
gives them indeed, better than any other, the kind of nourishment ^ 
which they come for ; but is what they come for, good ? And 
if it be not, — do you think it becomes so from the fact that it is 
seized with avidity ? I know very well, that the appearance ot 


44 


THE PREACHER 


a great crowd reacts favorably upon each one of the persons 
composing it ; many a sermon which would appear cold and life- 
less if preached before a hundred persons, may seem eloquent 
before six thousand ; but this is the very thing which would 
not happen if this discourse were the right sort of sermon. It 
would have its life within itself ; it would dispense with the aid 
of external emotions. Add to all this infatuation, fashion — ” 

“ Fashion !” cried M. de Fenelon. 

“ Does it not always count for something in all the successes 
of this world, even the most legitimate ?” 

“ But infatuation ! infatuation ! do you really know of whom 
you are speaking ?” 

“ Of a man whom I admire almost as much as you do. But 
I call all admiration infatuation, when it goes beyond its just 
limits. One may be infatuated with a great man* as well as 
with a fool. Add this, I say, and you will no longer ask why 
Notre Dame was so full.” 

“ There is a reputation admirably demolished !” 

“ Oh no, — I demolish nothing. I do not pretend to deprive 
nim of his ; I only point out the reputation at which I think he 
would have done better to aim, and your very annoyance proves 
to me that I am not entirely wrong ; you have too much judg- 
ment and too much piety not to enter in some degi*ee into my 
idea. Then I have still one justice to render him ; it is, that he 
is quite sincere. If he has adopted this path, it is because his 
peculiar quality of mind has led him into it ; and if he remains 
in it, it is not to cultivate the popularity there acquired, but only 
because he cannot do otherwise.” 

“ I shall not go back to your criticisms, — they contain both 
truth and error. But you will grant, that Father Bourdaloue 

* “We praise the man who is praised, far more than his praiseworthy 
qualities *’ — La Beuyere. 


AND THE KING. 


45 


would not have much to do to make them fall to the ground. 
With a little more warmth, some modifications of style — ” 

“ Style ! style ! why all writers will tell you, that it is the very 
thing which can least of all be changed. A man’s style is nearly 
as much a part of him as his physiognomy, his figure, the throb- 
bings of his pulse, — in short, as any part of his being which is 
the least subjected to the action of the will. A man cannot 
change his style, — the most he can succeed in doing is to travesty 
it. Thus, the expression change of style^ signifies nothing more 
^ than change of subject ; — it has been felt that it would be false, 
if the first meaning were left to it. With a mind naturally ar- 
gumentative, the style must be argumentative. It cannot be 
otherwise ; the warmth which may be forced into it, will be a 
warmth of words, of exclamation points, — not a real and living 
warmth. If the writer respect himself, he will not even attempt 
this, he will prefer remaining cold, to growing thus mechanically 
ardent.”^ 

“ Upon the whole, then, you do not even grant that Father 
Bourdaloue can acquire what he fails in now. Whether you 
are right or wrong, you must confess that this is somewhat bold, 
and he would be surprised enough, I think, if he should ever 
know — ” 

“ But uncle,” said the Abbe, smiling, “ who says that he does 
not know ?” 

* “ Let us now change our style, 0 Muse, and leave satire,” 

Boileau, Sat. vii. 

Tliere is often much philosophy in the modifications which usage gives 
to the meaning of words, and this at the very epoch when the best 
writers do not seem to imagine that there exists a philosophy of language. 
Wlieii Buftbn said “ the style is the man,” he only put into words the 
truth which had unconsciously been the starting-point more than a cen- 
tury before for an a'teratiou in the sense of the expression, change of 
styler 


46 


' THE PREACHER 


“ You have dared — ^j ou — ” 

He was stupefied. However, beneath this air of rebuke, there 
might have been perceived at these last words, the dawn of a 
sentiment of joy, perhaps of pride. M. de Fenelon was much 
more sensible than he wished to appear, to the growing reputa- 
tion of his nephew. In giving him grave lessons on pride, he 
was in the meantime enchanted to be able to say to himself, that 
the young man had good reason to think somewhat of himself ; 
and particularly at this moment, however vexed to find his 
opinions dissented from, he was really proud to have as nephew 
a man who had not recoiled before a Bourdaloue. In learning 
how far he had dared, the old soldier almost pardoned his having 
dared at all. 

“What!” he exclaimed. “You have said to him all that 
you have just been saying to me ? You said it to him 

“ Not all, perhaps, but I said a great many other things to 
him.” 

“ And it was his good pleasure to listen to you ?” 

“ Why not?” 

“ And he took the trouble to answer you ?” 

“ If he had been able — ” 

“ If he had been able ! Would you have me believe per- 
chance, that you had the advantage ?” 

“The advantage, — no, — I should take care not to use that 
word. But I can assure you, that I found him — on many 
points — 

“ Well ?” 

“ More tractable tl'an you.” 

“ He admits that ne reasons too much ?” 

“ He does.” 

“ He confesses that he lacks warmth ? that his sermons do not 
leave the impression on the mind which they ought ?” 


AND THE KING. 


4V 


“ He lamented it bitterly in my presence ; he told me that 
this idea haunted him — ” 

“ But this is treason !” cried the old man ; “ and I was de- 
fending him, and I would have fought for him !” 

“ But are you going to attribute to him as a crime, the fact, 
that his triumphs do not prevent him from being modest, and that 
he has the good sense not to think himself perfection ? It seems 
to me, that all this honors you both, — ^you, for having put so 
much warmth into your defence of an excellent priest, — ^him, for 
having received with so good a grace the counsels of a young 
man. Come, you will soon esteem him only the more for it ; 
and be sure that he will return you the like, for I shall tell him, 
as you may imagine — ” 

“ You shall tell him nothing, — ^you shall take me to see him. 
I have been wishing to know him for three or four years, and I 
have always put it off, — I do not knovf why.” 

“ To-day if you will.” 

** This evening, then. But who are these gentlemen V* 


CHAPTER II. 


THE COUNCIL OF THE PHILOSOPHERS. — BOSSUET, RENAUDOT, FLEURY, LANGERON, 
CORDEMOY, FLECHIER, ETC.— COMMENTARIES OF BOSSUET. — DISCUSSION OF 
THE STRUCTURE OF PULPIT DISCOURSES. BOURDALOUe’s STYLE AGAIN. 

Thirty paces before them, in the avenue wliicb our two speak- 
ers bad just entered, five or six ecclesiastics were slowly walking. 
Their motions appeared regulated by those of a dignified person- 
age — a bishop, to judge from his violet mantle. As they had 
their backs to the two Fenelons, the latter were not at first per- 
ceived bv them, and the Abbe had leisure to satisfy the curiosity 
of his uncle. 

“ These are the philosophers,” he answered. 

“In truth, one might fancy it Plato and the Academicians. 
But I never read that Plato was attended by a valet — ” 

“ Take care, uncle ! your Plato is M. Bossuet, and the folio 
volume which the valet carries, is the Bible.” 

The name philosojohers was in truth, that generally given by 
the court to the pious and learned men with whom Bossuet as- 
sociated. Singular fate of certain words ! This word, which 
one hundred years later, was to designate the destroyers of 
morals and religion, and which we no longer dare use without 
qualification, lest it should have the air of an insult, still retained 
at this epoch all the nobleness of its ancient signification, and all 
the purity of its Christian sense. 

The idea had occurred to Bossuet,. of giving to their prome- 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


49 


nades, especially on Sundays and fete-days, a more particular 
interest than that simply of conversations on any subjects which 
accidentally presented themselves. So they read a chapter in 
the Old Testament, and then each one made his remarks. 

The Abbe Renaudot,* * * § one of the first orientalists of the day 
addressed himself particularly to the critical examination of the 
text, the Abbe de Langeron to the questions of general history ; 
the Abbe Fleury to those of ecclesiastical history ; the Abbe de 
Cordemoy to doctrinal questions ; his father,f a great Cartesian, 
to metaphysical ; the iVbbe Flechier to the figures and the style, 
and the Abbe de la Broiie,;]; a tolerable poet, and former laure- 
ate of the floral games, to the poetry. There was also the Abbe 
de St. Luc, son of the marshal of this name ; the Abbe de Lon- 
gerne,§ and some others. Later, — for these reunions histed 
twenty-five years, — men of all ranks and conditions were admit- 
ted ; Racine and La Bruyere among the number. It is vex- 
atious to be obliged to add, that fashion finally intruded into 
the society. When the king took up religion, ’there was great 
eagerness to be received among the philosophers. 

The life and soul of these meetings, was Bossuet. Although 
several of those whom we have just mentioned were ihore 
learned, each in his own department, than Bossuet, it was won- 
derful to perceive how each one submitted to the influence of his 
genius, and preserved the position of a disciple. He, on his side, 

* Born in 1646, died in 1723. It is to him that Boileau addressed his 
epistle on “ The love of God.” 

f Reader to the daupliin, in whose service Bossuet had placed him. 
We have by him a “ Historij of Charlemagne" and a “ History of France^ 
continued by his son. 

X Nominated Bishop of Mirepoix in 1679 in consequence of a sermon 
j)reached before the king. He played a pai-t also in the dispute con- 
cerning tJie Bull. 

§ Famous for his originality and roughness of manner. 

5 


60 


THE PREAC HER 


with that urbane ease which is giver by the consciousness of un- 
disputed dominion, commonly interfered only in order to decide 
something; but — unless forced by his subject to do so; — he 
avoided deciding for or against any one, and confined himself 
to bringing out, by means of a lucid summary of the whole, that 
which was best in the remarks of each. The results of the dis- 
cussion were noted down during the meeting, on the margin of 
one of Yitiels large Bibles, from whence Bossuet scrupled not 
afterwards to take all that he needed for his works. We do not, 
however, find that any of those who had thus contributed, ever 
complained of this ; it appears, on the contrary, that they w^ero 
proud to bring their anonymous materials to all that he built, or 
wished to build. 

Often, indeed, they brought him more extended notes, upon 
which he drew with no more ceremony than he employed in 
regard to those in his Bible. His glory received no injury from 
this ; it might have been said, that all belonged to him, in right 
of his genius. The Protestants alone, thought of remarking, 
that this right resembled a great deal too much the right of the 
strongest ; and perhaps there was some reason in this remark. 
But what purpose does it serve, to be right in the face of popular 
favor ? Go and tell the French, that the Genevese Dumont and 
some others wrote the orations of Mirabeau ! They will laugh 
in your face, and perhaps, too, they will not be altogether wrong. 
When Mirabeau ascended the tribune, it signified nothing 
whether his discourse was by some one else cr not ; as soon as 
three sentences of it had been pronounced I y him, it was his 
own, and could no longer belong to any other besides him. 
Thus it was that Bossuet made use of other people’s ideas. 

But to return to our philosophical promenades. They had 
commenced two years earlier, at St. Germain, and had been con- 
tinued at Versailles during the summers of 1673 and 16'74. This 


AND THE KING. 


51 


was the first meeting of 1GY5 ; accordingly, the Council, as it 
was called, was not complete. It had often numbered as many 
as twelve members, and Ave have already said that on this day 
there Avere but five or six. This Avas because the meeting liad 
not been announced beforehand. It had been suddenly resolved 
that they should profit by an jifternoon of fine Aveather, and Avere 
not sorry, moreover, to make a beginning on so solemn a day as 
Shrove Tuesday. 

The Fenelons quickened their steps, and Avere soon able to 
seize the subject of the conversation. This Avas not an intrusion 
on their part, since the nepheAV generally attended this confer- 
ence, and the uncle Avas very intimate Avith Bossuet. 

They had taken up the book of Isaiah, at the same place 
where they had left otf, the previous autumn. This Avas at the 
fourteenth chapter. The Abbe Fleury had read it aloud, and 
the discussion had just commenced. But on this occasion Bos- 
suet, contrary to his usual custom, Avas the first to take the sub- 
ject. He felt an impulse to express the profound impression 
Avhich this superb chapter had made upon him. 

“ Hoav many grand things it contains !” he exclaimed. “ If 
the author Avere a poet only, I Avould say that this Avas his mas- 
tei-piece. You may find in some other chapters, equal, — perhaps 
greater richness ; but it seems to me that there is none Avher<L 
the grandeur of the arrangement is more suited to the majesty 
of the details. It is not simply an isolated passage, nor is it 
ev'en an ode ; — it is a Avhole poem. The more you study it, the 
more you Avill be convinced that nothing is Avanting.” 

And he proceeded to give them a rough sketch of its plan and 
execution. 

It Avould indeed be difficult to find anything, even in the Bible, 
superior to this chapter. It is the one AA'here the prophet, apos- 
trophizing a king Avho is just dead, — descends Avith him into the 


52 


THE PREACHER 


depths of hell, to proclaim the nothingness of his glory, and to 
sing the release of the nations which had gr oaned beneath his 
yoke. From Augustine to Bossuet, — from Jerome to Dr. Lowth, 
from Sidonius to the two Racines, the world has had but one 
voice to admire this chapter ; — and where is even the infidel, — 
if he still retain an appreciation of the beautiful and poetical, — 
who will refuse to join the chorus ? 

It is vexatious that Bossuet’s Commentaries on the Old Testa- 
ment, — although for the most part prepared and written down 
subsequently to these conversations, should give us but a very 
imperfect idea of what was said. Do not, in these notes, ex- 
pect either poetry or eloquence. You will scarcely find a few 
words, here and there, from which you may conjecture, that the 
sublimity of the text has not escaped the commentator. They 
are Commentaries^ in the strictest sense of the word, and the 
author even seems to have confined himself to commenting as a 
philologist rather than a theologian. We wish that it could be 
truly said, that these notes are of great value in a philological 
point of view ; but unfortunately this is not the case. Bossuet 
did not understand Hebrew ; he studied it subsequently, — but 
scarcely went beyond the first elements. The Abbe Renaudot, 
whom he familiarly called his lexicon ^ — knew just as much of it 
as the other scholars of the day, — that is to say — little enough 
in comparison with what has since been known ; the study of 
the oriental languages being then almost as much in its infancy 
as that of the natural sciences. Thus, Bossuet generally confined 
himself to the Latin text and the Septuagint. What really 
solid structure could be raised on a basis of knowledge which 
would not in our day content the humblest German scholar ? 
lie is, accordingly, but rarely quoted by the commentators of the 
present day. However, if these notes contain but little true 
learning, they also contain fewer errors than might be imagined. 


AND THE KING. 


53 




There was a certain depth of logic and reason in the author’s 
mind, which supplied his want of learning. This can be most 
convincingly seen, for instance, in a little treatise on anatomy, 
which he wrote for the education of the Dauphin. There 
are many things lacking in this, which Bossuet did not know, — 
which were not known at all then; yet there is nothing, or 
scarcely anything, which does not agree more or less with 
subsequent discoveries. 

The accusation of dryness may remain then. But in these 
conversations, where he did not consider himself obliged to be 
learned, — at least not to be learned only^ the commentator was 
merged in the poet, and the learned man in the man of genius. 
He followed frequently in the footsteps of the prophets, to a 
height, which it seemed as if none other excepting them had 
ever yet reached. 

In the meantime our two friends continued to approach the 
group. At the end of the avenue they joined it, and after the 
first salutations the Marquis said : — 

“ Continue, gentlemen, I beg. But perhaps I have no right — 
a layman — ” 

“ A layman,” said Bossuet, “ to whom we could wish that all 
priests should bear a resemblance. Besides, you are not the only 
one ; here is M. Pelisson — ” 

The Marquis bowed, but very coldly. 

He had at first rejoiced, like all the Roman Catholics of 
France, at the conversion (in 1670,) of so distinguished a man ; 
but when he saw him become the enemy of his former brethren, 
and receive without the least shame, the price of his zeal against 
them, he ceased to esteem him. Some one remarking one day 
in his presence, that God had showed great mercy to Pelisson in 
wresting him from the dominion of error; — “A very great 
mercy,” replied M. de Fenelon, “ since he was so fortunate as 

5* 


54 


THE PREACHER 


to open ,liis eyes precisely at the time when his conversion would 
confer upon him the greatest amount of favor and money.” It 
was a little like the history of Henry IV., e7ilightened in like 
manner, at the very moment when it was the most his interest to 
be so. Another thing which M. de Fenelon could not forgive 
him, was the species of adoration which he had since bestowed 
upon the king. After having, by his courageous defence of 
Fouquet, attracted the admiration of France and Europe, he 
gradually became one of the most servile courtiers of this mon- 
arch, to whom one might have believed that he would never say 
anything but the boldest truths. As early as 1671, in a dis- 
course delivered at the Academy on the occasion of the recep- 
tion of Archbishop de Harlay, he had, in praise of the king, 
exhausted all the refinements of’ rhetoric and adulation. The 
king himself, it was asserted, had been put out of countenance ; 
and truly it was not a little thing, in the way of praise, which 
could embarrass him. The orator asks, — ‘Was there then, some 
extraordinary revolution in the heavens, at the birth of Louis 
XIV., some new conjunction or constellation,^ — since,’ he adds, 
‘ it is certain and indisputable, that kings are our stars, and 

* He could have ascertained this fact, had he been anxious, — for there 
exists an engraving of 1638, representing “ The solar system at the mo- 
ment of the birth of the Dauphin, the hth of Sept., at twenty rninntes after 
eleven in the evening.” The littleness of men ! It would, however, be 
true to say, that the birth of Louis XIV. was received, if not by the stars, 
at least by Europe, as something great and providential. Louis XIII. wiia 
dying, the race of the Bourbons was about to become extinct. When it 
was known, that after having been mari-ied twenty years, without chil- 
dren, the queen was about to present the nation with a sovereign, the 
nations said, 

“ A great man is to be born !” 

as in Victor Hugo’s ode on the birth of the King of Rome. These recol- 
lections were not without their influence upon the glory of Louis XIV.’s 
I eign. 


AND THE KING. 


55 


their looka our influences.’ And his friend had been in prison 
ten years ! xVnd tlie king whom he thus flattered, was not yet 
surrounded by all the glory, real or fictitious, which his sub- 
sequent flatterers were able to allege as an excuse for their base- 
ness. It will be seen, that this was more than enough to deprive 
him of the esteem of M. de Fenelon. 

“ M. Pelisson,” continued Bossuet, “ often does us the honor 
to join us.” 

“ And the presence of a layman, in a religious discussion, is no 
disadvantage,” said the Abbe de la Broue. “ We churchmen 
are all more or less inclined to look only on the theological side 
of things; a layman is less in danger of forgetting their practical 
side, and the very idea that he listens to us, forces us- to remem- 
ber it also.” 

“Yes,” said the Abbe Fleury, “it reminds us that theology is 
a means, not an end ; that the doctors are for the church, not 
the church for the doctors. It is vexatious that so many preach- 
ers forget this. And yet laymen are present when we are 
preaching; we are even supposed to preach only at and for 
them. In spite of that, how many theological sermons we hear ! 
And even among those which are not so much so as to dis- 
hearten the hearei-s, still how many are the discourses where tnere 
is still great room for improvement on this point.” 

“ It would not suffice to change the main point,” resumed the 
Abbe de la Broue, “ if the form be not changed as well. In vain 
you would banish all scholastic ideaa ^ — if you have the unlucky 
faculty of giving a scholastic air to the simplest things, it is all 
the same to the mass of hearers ; you will either not be under 
stood, or you wiL uC listened to by the head alone, while the 
heart will remain closed. If our orators employed all the time 
in seeking for good ideas, which they lose in arranging and 
often in spoiling the few they have, — what a change, what an iin- 


6(5 


THE PREACHER 


provement there would be ! I do not know whether I may ven- 
ture to say so, but it seems to me, that Father Bourdaloue — ” 

. “ Here is something for you, nephew,” said the marquis in a 
low voice. 

“Or rather for you, uncle,” replied Fenelon. 

“ — that Father Bourdaloue,” continued the abbe, “ is not a . 
model in this respect — ” 

“ That man will always be our superior . in all things,” inter- 
rapted Bossuet. 

Was he sincere ? Could he seriously believe himself inferior 
to the man for whom he had paved the way _We cannot tell ; 
but he had already expressed himself in this manner several 
times in regard to him ; it is even asserted, that he said as much 
ten years afterwards, on the occasion of the funeral oration of 
the Prince de Conde delivered by Bourdaloue, and so infeiior to 
the one which he himself delivered some days after. 

“No oftence to the modesty of M. de Condom,” said the Abbe 
Renaudot, “but I am of your opinion, M. de la Broue. Not that 
I have any difficulty in following M. Bourdaloue through the in- 
genious labyrinth into which it pleases him to plunge. Besides, 
if I should happen for an instant to lose the thread, it is so cer- 
tain that he will hold fast to it, and will not lose it, that I could 
still with pleasure close my eyes, and abandon myself to the tor- 
rent of ideas. Shall I confess it? I am entertained by it; but 
when I remind myself, that I am not there to be entertained, I 
go away saddened ; — I pity those poor people who, less accus- 

* There is no commoner literary error, nor yet one more palpable, 
than that which makes Masearon and Bourdaloue anterior to Bossuet. 
The latter was five years older than Bourdaloue, and seven years older 
than Masearon ; and besides having commenced his career very young, he 
was known at least ten years before they were. It is upon the authority 
of Voltaire and Thomas, that this singulai' anachronism has crept even 
into very recent works. • 


AND THE KING. 


67 


tamed than we are, to niceties of language, cannot enjoy even 
tills useless pleasurs. Do you recollect, for instance, gentlemen, 
his beautiful sermon on final impenitence ?” 

‘‘ I noted down the plan of it,” said Fenelon. 

“ And did you not remark — ” 

“ M. I’Abbe,” said the marquis, quickly, “ my nephew made 
only too many remarks. Do not encourage him in it, J beg.” 

“ Let him speak. If he goes too far we will stop him.” 

“ I shall not go too far ; I shall say nothing. But listen to 
the plan ; and I do not promise even to get through with thaf* 
The first, die in a .state of actual impenitence ; the second, with- 
out any feeling of penitence ; the last, in the delusion of a false 
penitence. The first are the most criminal, the second the most 
unhappy ; the third are neither so criminal as the first, nor so 
unhappy as the second; they are, however, unhappy because 
they are blinded, and criminal because they are sinners. I shall 
accordingly, call the impenitence of the first, a criminal impeni- 
tence, — that of the second, an unhappy impenitence, — that of 
the third, a disguised impenitence. And after having delineated 
these three characters, I shall add three reflections.! An impen- 
itent life conducts to criminal impenitence at death, by the way 
of inclination ; this is my first part. An impenitent life conducts 
to unhappy impenitence at death, by the way of punishment ; 


* Literally true. 

f “ Preachers always have, from an indispensable and geometrical neces- 
sity, three subjects worthy of your attention. You will, in the first place, 
be convinced of a certain truth, and this is their first division, — of another 
truth, and this is their second division, — then of a third truth, and this is 
their third division; so that the first reflection will . instruct you in one 
of the most fundamental duties of your religion, — the second in a prin- 
ciple not less important, and the third and last, in a third and last prin- 
ciple, the most important of all, which is, however, postponed for want 
of time, to a fut u’e occasion.” — La Bruvere. 


58 


THE PREACHER 


this is my secor d division. An impenitent life conducts to dis- 
guised impenitence at death, by the way of deception ; this is 
my third division.” 

“ What a memory !” they exclaimed. 

“ Take care, gentlemen,” remarked Fenelon, “you cannot com- 
pliment me on my memory, without yourselves criticizing him 
who has furnished me with such an opportunity for exercising it.” 

Smilingly they exchanged significant glances. 

“ He is right,” said the Abbe Renaudot, “ and it would not be 
so bad, if this were a rare instance ; but passages of this sort 
are not uncommon in the sermons of Father Bourdaloue ; — it 
may even be asserted that this is generally his style.* It is ac- 
cordingly not astonishing, that he has such difficulty in learning 
his sermons, such fear of losing a single word. Pages written in 
this way must be memorized like the Lord’s Prayer. Let a sin- 
gle idea escape you, — all is lost ; drop a single link and you are 
at a loss where to take it up again. From this course proceeds 
the inexpressible anguish, which our illustrious friend never fails 
to experience until he reaches the last word of his sermon. His 
eyes almost always closed, his motions uneasy, — his sentences too 
fast or too slow, — his gestures often unsuited to his subject, — 
everything betrays the prodigious eftbrt of memory which is an 
actual torture to himself, and to those who are so unfortunate as 
to perceive it. Moreover, he does not attempt to conceal it from 
himself ; he submits to it, as the sailor to his oar, and the peasant 
to his plough. It is not until after he has preached the same 
discourse several times, that he begins to be confident, and 

* See, as a curiosity in this style, the plan of Bourdaloue’s Panegyric 
of John the Baptist. “ I do uot know,” says Maury, “ either among the 
ancients or moderns, any plan of an eulogy, which can be compared with 
the arrangement of this discoiu'se. Religion alone can furnish such a road 
, eloquence.” 

Yes, the religion of the scholastics, but surely not Christianity. 


and the king. 


59 


himself to join a little in the pleasure which his words confer 
upon us.” 

“ In truth,” remarked one of the party, “ it is a pity to think, 
that a man who enables you to pass an hour so replete with in- 
struction and interest, should pass it himself in anguish, — in a 
feverish state of torture. With a better memory — ” 

“ He does not complain of his memory,” said the Al be de la 
Broue. “ He would be unjust if he did ; I do not believe that 
there are many who wouid succeed as well as he does in getting 
through such long discourses so prodigiously filled with ideas. 
But it seems to me, that if he had no other motive, this very 
fatigue would have induced him to change his style of compo- 
sition. For my own pait, — if I may venture to adduce my own 
case after that of such a man, — I have always noticed, that those 
sermons into which I had put more feeling than thought, — at 
which I had labored rather with my heart than my head, gave 
me scarcely any trouble to learn, and, that on the contrary, those 
in which, either from the subject, or from my own fault, the 
mind had predominated over the heart, were memorized slowly, 
and with labor.* Again, and most important in this connec- 
tion, I have also remarked, that the first, — those which I had 
memorized without trouble, produced the most impression, and 
gained me the most commendation ; not perhaps, from those 
frivolous hearers whose approbation is worth very little, but 
from pious and serious people. Furthermore, I have several 
times happened to discover, that even those who only came to 
hear a rhetorical discourse, went away again, confessing that a 
Christian discourse was of far more value. Finally, I have hal 

* “ When the orator studies his sermon, he is the first judge of it. 53x- 
perience shows him, that those passages which he has the most trouble in 
learning,' are those which least deserve to be learnt.”— Maury. Pulpit 
Eloquence. 


60 


THE PREACHER 


occasion, to make the same observation in respect to the memory 
of all classes, ignorant or learned, pious or not, — that I have in 
regard to my own, viz. that it is incomparably quicker and more 
retentive, when anything comes into it through the heart than 
when it comes through the head. The preacher, however, is al- 
ways inclined to fancy the contrary when he is composing his 
sermon. It seems to him, that the more his subject is divided 
and subdivided, the clearer it will be ; that the more minute the 
morsels into which the nourishinent is separated, the more will 
be gained from it. Error ! error When I see him thus ex- 
ercising his ingenuity in parcelling out some grand and beautiful 
idea, — I fancy I see a man to whom a huge stone has been 
given in order to break down a door, and who, — instead of 
throwing it with all his might against the obstacle to be van- 
quished, — exhausts himself in breaking up the missile, and in 
throwing it piece by piece. There is the same difference between 
a methodical sermon and an eloquent one, as between a chess- 
board and a picture. In vain might the frame of the chess-board 
be perfectly beautiful, — in vain, by a refinement of luxury, might 
each square be ornamented with a different little picture ; you 
would praise the skill and industry of the workman, — ^but if any 
one told you that he relied upon yom’ memory to retain the ar- 
rangement and the subjects of all these' little designs, — would 
you not be considerably astonished ? Would you not say, that 
the very regularity of the plan, by preventing your fixing your 
eye upon any one square rather than another, rendered it impos- 
sible for you to carry away a distinct and settled idea of it ? The 
workman himself, would probably not without difficulty accom- 
plish that which was required of you.” 

* “ What preparations for a sermon of three quarters of an hour ! The 
more they strive to digest and explain it, the more I am perplexed.” — luv 
Bruyerh.. 


AND THE KING. 


61 


“ I like your comparison,” said tlie Marquis. “ Allow me, 
however, to add one limitation. Does not the difficulty of learn- 
ing by heart proceed sometimes from quite an opposite reason ? 
You speak only of those sermons which are too full, too com- 
pact ; those which are not enough so would have the same dis- 
advantage, it seems to me.” 

“ Doubtless,” replied the Abbe. “ Accordingly, I do not mean 
to say, that the less a discourse have, of logical regularity, the 
more easily it will impress itself upon the memory of author and 
hearer. Est modus in rebus. A body ought not to be all bones, 
— but neither should it be all flesh. Let us imitate nature ; let 
us conceal the skeleton, but not banish it entirely ; and in the 
same manner as the human body allows the bony frame which 
supports it to be perceived beneath the noblest and most grace- 
ful outlines, — so, in a discourse apparently the most inartificial, 
a practised eye must always be able, if it will, to follow and 
discover the frame and connection. Keep within these limits, and 
instead of burdening the memory, this order and these divisions 
are its most powerful aids. Yet even if this be the case, it is 
useless to have it forced upon our attention.” 

“ It is worse than useless,” said Fenelon, “ for it can but serve 
to cool our enthusiasm, and deprive eloquence of the illusions 
with which it must of necessity surround itself.” 

“ That it cools us,” said the Abbe Fleury, “ is quite certain. 
This is my first division^ this my second^ are forms which I de- 
test; they not only cool, but freeze me. But I do not quite 
comprehend what you mean by the illusions of eloquence. Illu- 
sion has a bad sound, in connection with the Christian pulpit.” 

“ Let us change the word if you will ; you are quite ready to 
grant me the thing itself, I am sure. When a preacher affects 
you, — carries you away with him, — what would be the most 
likely to cut short your emotion ?” 

6 


62 


'THE PREACHER 


“The’ idea that the emotion of the orator was act sincere.” 

“Yes, but what else?” 

“ The idea that he knew his discourse by heart.” 

“ Precisely, but does this idea often come into your mind ?” 

“ Never, — that is unless the speaker has the air of reciting a 
lesson, or unless he runs after his words. Even in this case, so 
soon as he begins to go on well again, I begin again to give 
myself up to him.” 

“Well, that is the illusion of whicli I spoke. You ask noth- 
ing better than to receive this discourse, — which you know to 
be written and learned by heart, — which you have perhaps al- 
ready heard, as if it sprung at the very instant from the heart 
of him who addresses you. Far from struggling against your 
natural inclination to forget the circumstances, the remembrance 
of which would spoil all, you struggle, on the contrary, against 
all that could remind you of them. Admirable instinct, for 
which we cannot be too grateful to Provddence, and without 
which we would be forced to resign all the delights as well as 
all the advantages of literature, eloquence and the arts ! Where 
wmuld be the charm of the most beautiful verses, if we were con- 
demned to recall what they had cost, to feel the shackles which 
the rhyme and the rhythm have imposed upon the thoughts ! 
Where would be the charm of painting, if we were not able to 
abstract the mind from the wooden frame, which interrupts the 
perspective, and from the time, labor and retouching which the 
picture has required ! From this springs a rule — to return to 
preaching — too often disregarded, which, however, should reg- 
ulate all that is human and exterior in pulpit art ; it is, that all 
which tends to indicate that the preacher is not extemporizing, 
should be carefully avoided. “ Naturalize art,” said Montaigne, 
“rather than artialize nature.” Now the multiplication of di- 
visions, and the too blunt announcement of them, will recall 


AND THE KING. 


63 


that to the hearer, which cannot be present to his mind without 
destroying the effect of the discourse ; it is like showing the bel- 
lows of the organ to those who would prefer much to be igno- 
rant of its mechanism, in order to concentrate all their attention 
and all their soul upon the sounds which it produces. Not 
being able to avoid wishing for the energy and naturalness of 
extemporization in every discourse, we undertake to endow it with 
this. Only save appearances, and our hearts, our imaginations 
will do the rest. But if the audience receive nothing for their 
expenditure of good-will ; if the reality be so palpable as to render 
illusion impossible, their vexation increases in proportion to all 
the attempts they have made. We only ask to be deceived ; 
so much the worse then for the orator if he undeceive us, and 
despoil himself of the crown which we wish to place upon his 
head. Unhappily it is upon ourselves also, that the conse- 
quences of his fault falls, for, this illusion once destroyed, it is 
scarcely possible that the sermon can edify us."^ We may get 
some ideas from it, if it contain any, but as for deep and edi- 
fying impressions, they are not to be dreamed of. A sermon 
perfect in this respect, is one in which labor and art are imper- 
ceptible to those who are not thinking of looking for them ; that 
in which I find a plan when I seek one, but where nothing forces 
me to see it when I am not looking for it, and when the under- 
standing of the head is willing to give place to that of the 
heart.” 

* “ If the' audience he affected by the di’cad of seeing you stop short, 
it can be affected by nothing you say.” — L a Bruyere. 


CHAPTER III. 


BOSSUET AND THE MARQUIS DE FENELON. — CHARACTER AND GENIUS OF THE ABBE 

DE FENELON. — DELINEATION OF PORTRAITS DANGEROUS FROM THE PULPIT. 

PERSONAL APPLICATION OF THE TRUTH DIFFICULT. ARNAULD. — DUTY OF BOS- 
SUET TO THE KING. SUDDEN SUMMONS FROM THE KING. 

Although the Abbe de Fenelon had not finished what he 
had to say, — for we have already seen that he did not wish the 
appearance only, of improvisation, but improvisation itself, — he 
would not probably have ventured to speak so long, nor so ear- 
nestly in his uncle’s, and more particularly in Bossuet’s presence ; 
but some moments previous, the prelate and the marquis had 
begun to converse together, at first on the same subject, and 
afterwards on others ; and they had finished by gradually with- 
drawing themselves from the rest of the group. However the 
voice of Fenelon still reached them. 

“My nephew does not seem at all constrained,” said the mar- 
quis. 

“ Your nephew will distinguish himself,” replied Bossuet ; 
*^but he will never make an orator.” 

“ I have told him so twenty times.” 

“ And what is his reply ?” 

“ That he is glad of it; that he does not wish to be one.” 

“ That is a pity, for he could become one.” ^ 

“ You think so ?” 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


65 


“ Certainly but he disdains art too much. Because others 
make a bad use of it, he will not hear of it. ‘ He does not wish 
to be an orator’ he has told you. That is just like him, with his 
romantic ideas ; for there is always a little romance in his ideas, 
and I am afraid it may some day extend into his religion. You 
see, because the word orator is sometimes used to designate a 
preacher without piety, he rejects this title which so many great 
men glory in, and which the ancients set above everything else. 
With this exception, I am of his opinion with regard to all that 
he was saying just now. His ideas are in general good — but 
they need that a severe taste should be exercised in the applica- 
tion of them.” 

“ Is it then in taste that he is wanting ?” 

“ I did not say taste^ but a severe taste. He has the taste of sen- 
timent more developed than any one I know ; but that of the 
reason, he has in a much smaller degree, and he appears not to 
wish to acquire it. He will be a theoretical man, loving ex- 
tremes ; obstinate in reality, but so gentle and charitable in his 
manner, that the public will pass over all the rest. Defeated, he 
will still carry off the honors of the battle.” 

“ Well, there is his horoscope, complete.” 

“I know him even better than I seem to. Wait until he 
writes and you will see.” 

Although many years were yet to elapse before the famous 
quarrels which put Bossuet and Fenelon at swords’ point, the 

* Two discourses of Fenelon, the only ones, it is said, wliich he ever 
wrote and committed to memory, are worthy of Bossuet. One is a ser- 
mon on Missions ; the other was preached in 1708, at the consecration of 
the Archbishop of Cologne. Maury relates, that struck with the beauties 
of the first, and perceiving that no one was acquainted with it, although 
it had been published for more than a century, he read it to some friends 
as an unedited discourse of Bossuet. Great admiration was expressed 
and none suspected the trick . — Criticisms and Portraits, Maury. 

6 * 


66 


THE PREACHER 


latter was of too frank and impetuous a character, for the Bishop 
of Condom, — who during the last two or three years saw him 
daily, — not to have had the opportunity to study him in every 
aspect; thus tlie history of Fenelon appears tolerably accordant 
with what the marquis had called his horoscope. It was impos- 
sible to deny that he was good, gentle and amiable ; but also 
impossible not to admit that he was what we would at the pres- 
ent time, call an opposition man. What is to be understood by 
this ? Is a man an opposition man from the mere fact that he 
has often been obliged to combat, to oppose ? Some men have 
battled all their lives without any one having dreamed of apply- 
ing this term to them. The opposition man, is he who has, even 
while attacking, the art of appearing the attacked party,— of 
summoning to his side an interest foreign to the real matter in 
question, — of regaining on the ground of sympathy, what he 
loses in a logical point of view, — of being defeated, in fine, as Bos- 
suet had said, yet carrying off the honors of the battle. Is not 
this Fenelon ? Are we not still under the charm of that interest, 
with which he knew how to invest himself even in the eyes of 
those who had little or no sympathy with his ideas ? Do you 
think for instance that the almost mystical author of the Maxims 
of the Saints would have been so loudly praised by Voltaire and 
Diderot, unless there had existed between them that sort of rela- 
tionship, which the spirit of opposition often establishes between 
men who have absolutely nothing else in common ? 

“ He will be a theoretical man, loving extremes,” Bossuet had 
said. This was also the opinion of Louis XIV. One day, after 
a long conversation with Fenelon he said, “I have just been 
talking with the man, who has the finest, yet most fanciful mind 
in my kingdom.” Without agreeing entirely with this judg- 
ment, — for among those ideas which Louis XIV. called fanciful, 
there were probably some which we would have found good and 


AND THE KING. 


G7 


beautiful, — we do not believe that the king was as far from the 
truth as has been sometimes asserted in relating this anecdote. 
In religion, politics and literature, Fenelon had made for him- 
self, as it were, a world apart. This world he peopled in his 
ovvn manner. It could not accordingly be other than an admi- 
rably beautiful, pure and noble world, but on that very account, 
always more or less different from the existing one. See his Max- 
ims of the Saints, see his Telemachus. Soft, flowery, agreeably 
subtle, and strewed with antique fancies, his prose was not un- 
like those fine, god-like old men, of whom he often tells us, with 
long beards, whiter than snow, slowly moving forward through 
the woods, towards a temple whiter than the purest Parian 
marble.* 

After some reflections upon this inclination to leave the exist- 
ing world, and upon the evils resulting from it, Bossuet said, “ It 
is to this, that we may attribute those sermons consisting of de- 
scriptive portraits. Perhaps this astonishes you ; you are about 
to assert that these portraits, on the contrary, are only made to 
show the world as it is. This is truly the object of the preacher — 
but does he attain this object? Confess that he does so but 
rarely. Once having taken up this style the orator is scarcely 
master of his tongue. His imagination is excited; one idea 
summons another ; one trait follows another ; one fancy is heaped 
on the other ; he ends by painting vices twenty times blacker 
than they are, and \drtues twenty times more brilliant than those 
of the greatest saints, and the inevitable result of this unlucky 
display of energy is, that the hearer listens without hearing, ad- 
mires without believing, hears evil spoken of without imagining 
that he can have committed it, and good, without having the 
idea enter h 3 mind that so dazzling a picture can be meant for 
realization dv this world. You have often felt this, I suppose?” 

, * Saiute Beuve . — Critiques et For traits. 


68 


THE PREACHER 


“ Too often. — I will even confess to my shame, that this sort of 
sermon, lias, until now, never displeased me as much as it shoiud 
have done ; if there is some mind and imagination in the deline- 
ations, — I allow myself to be carried away like others, by the 
pleasure of watching the painter.” 

“ This delineation of portraits,” resumed Bossuet, “ is the best 
method of talking without saying anything, — of interesting with- 
out good resalts. This style has still another disadvantage; it 
leads the preacher to isolate himself from his audience. It is no 
longer a friend, a brother, come to edify himself as well as you, — 
to accuse himself, and take comfort himself together with you ; 
but a judge, who summons you before him ; a pitiless critic, seem- 
ingly more anxious to fill his discourse with your imperfections, 
than to fill your souls from the word of God. Separated from 
you himself, — he separates you also, the one from the others ; in 
addressing himself successively to all the classes in which it has 
pleased him to group his hearers ; — he calls them all separately 
to be judged and condemned, and it is fortunate if there do not 
remain many besides, who, not finding themselves included in 
any class, consequently retain all through the discourse, the 
posture^f critics which he has been so imprudent as to give 
^em.( If you would be truly useful, truly powerful in the pul- 
pit, then must you never allow a portion of the audience to cross 
their arms, remaining spectators of the combat and jeering the 
vanquished ; each one must feel himself included in the condem- 
nations which you pronounce ; the preacher must even show him 
self to be included in th^m^ 

“But that is not always possible,” said Monsieur de Fenelon. 
“ Would you wish him to take his part in the most disgraceful 
vices?” 

“ In the vices ? — no ; but in the principle of the vices. You are 
preaching, for instance, on calumny, must you go to work ’to avow 


AND THE KING. 


69 


that you are a calumniator ? Not at all ; even if you have been 
so unhappy as to commit this sin, — this is no reason that you 
should pi-.blicly make an avowal compromising the dignity of the 
])ulpit. But in place of confining yourself to calumny, strictly 
speaking, — and to those hideous details in which no one could or 
would choose to recognize himself, — go back to the source, to those 
piinciples of deception and vice whose sad and fatal traces it is 
so easy to find in every one. Then without degrading your min- 
istry or yourself, nothing will hinder you from seeking in your 
own heart and your own experience, the characteristics of which 
you have need ; then, (to return to calumny,) instead of direct en- 
deavors to render it odious, by pictures of it which run the risk 
of not being looked at, attack it in its first beginnings and in- 
cluding yourself with your hearers, you deprive them of all ex- 
cuse for imagining that there is no applicability to them. In 
seeing before him a variety of individuals, different in their in- 
terests, their passions and their characters — the sacred orator 
should never forget, that he is there between God and man, far 
more than between God and such kinds of men; the multitude 
who hear him, should be in his eyes, as it were, but a single 
creature ; one unhappy being to be consoled, — one sinful sinner 
to be aroused and saved. The way to preach to all , — is to 
preach constantly to one’s-self ; to be able to find in one’s-self, 
the type of the sole being, man, for whom religion is made.” 

“ These ideas have occurred to me,” said M. de Fcnelon, “ but 
indistinctly ; and I thank you for having aided me to explain 
them to myself. You have also put me in mind of certain ob- 
servations which I have often made, but without knowing with 
what to connect them. Among others — do you not think that 
the habit which certain preachers have, of incessantly commend- 
ing the past, at the expense of the present, tends also to the non- 
obser ance of the principles which you have laid down ?” 


70 


THE PREACHER 


“ Doubtless ; it is one of tbe forms of tlie mania for delinea- 
tions. Not that the preacher may not be allowed, within certain 
limits, to seek by this means to reanimate national or religious 
recollections in his hearers ; but as soon as he exaggerates, he 
does more harm to religion in the minds of those who perceive 
it, than he can do good to those who do not perceive it.” 

“ From all this, I perceive that the style of which we speak, is 
not necessarily bad in itself, but that it is in more danger of be- 
ing abused, than most others. And in truth it is abused by al- 
most all those who embrace it. If ambition be the subject, be- 
hold Alexander and Caesar adduced ; but these two men, are ac- 
tual sluggards in comparison with the ambitious man such as I 
have often heard him described. Is avarice the subject ? Im- 
mediately comes the portrait of the miser ; but this miser is a 
species of monster like whom there have not perhaps exist- 
ed twenty since the creation of the world. — Have you read 
Moliere ?” 

The prelate had a slight air of embarrassment. 

“Come, you have read it,” said the Marquis, smiling. “ Well 
as I was about to say, Harpagon is a real prodigy in comparison 
with the miser whom Father Seraphim described to us one day, 
two or three years ago. — And the court ! and the courtiers ! In 
vain did Monsieur de la Rouchefoucauld say all the evil of 
them that he knew, (and he knew them better than any one 
else ;) he never discovered the quarter of what I have heard 
asserted many a time by preachers freshly arrived from the 
provinces ; and that at Versailles itself, before the king, before 
the whole court. Consequently I have never perceived that the 
courtiers were the least in the world offended at it. These thun- 
derbolts passed over their heads ; the most corrupted could say 
in all sincerity, that this did not touch them. In the delineation 
of virtues^ I think exaggeration is less dangerous. Does not the 


AND THE KING. 


71 


Evangelist say, ‘Be ye perfect even as your Father in heaven is 
perfect V Now the hyperbole is evident. — To be perfect, as God 
is perfect ! There would be madness not only in the idea that 
one was actually on the road to such a perfection, but even in 
the attempt to travel tjie road. 

“And accordingly that is not what Jesus Christ asks. To pro- 
pose God to us, as our model, is absolutely as if one should di- 
rect a traveller to walk directly towards the sun. Would he on 
that account fancy that there were any possibility of reaching 
that luminary ? He would understand that it was question of a 
direction to be followed and not of a goal to be arrived at. But 
when a preacher sets to work to depict to me the life of a certain 
ideal Christian, whom I am commanded to resemble, it is no 
longer a direction only which he points out to me, — it is an end ; 
instead of a reality to be contemplated, — it is a fiction to be re- 
alized. From that moment, if the picture be ever so little too 
beautiful and too dazzling, I may indeed admire it as a picture, 
but I do not dream of imitating it^ 

“ Upon the whole, then, which is it best to exaggerate ? The 
delineation of good, or that of evil ?” 

“ Neither the one nor the other. In exaggerating that of the 
evil to be avoided, you trace likenesses in which no one is willing 
to recognize himself in exaggerating that of the good to be 
attained, you only confirm the sinner in that fatal but comfort- 
able idea, that he is too feeble to attain it, and that God will be 
less exacting than you.” 

“ Have you not also remarked that the preachers who thunder 
the most against vice, are not generally the most zealous in brand- 
ing it in their relations with society or the church ? And never 

* “ There is already only too much evil in this world ; and it is a great 
evil to exaggerate it. To paint men always bad, is inviting them to ba 
60.” — VoLTAiEE. Supplement to the ^'Siecle de Louis X/F.” 


72 


THE PREACHER 


tlieless, \t seems to me, that a man deceives himself greatly, if he 
imagine himself to be exempt from his ministerial functions, be- 
cause he may have exercised their duties unsparingly on public 
occasions. Two seasonable words often do more good than 
twenty 9f those sermons where each one is at liberty to take 
nothing.” 

“ Alas ! yes ! but it requires more faith and courage to say 
those two words face to face with one single sinner, than from 
the pulpit, to rebuke two or three thousand persons, ready to 
listen to everything, on condition of forgetting it all.” 

“ It does, in truth, require courage ; above all,” — M. de Fenelon 
hesitated. 

“ Above all when this sinner,” he resumed, “ is — ” 

“ A king, — ^you would say ?” 

“ You have guessed ; and particularly a king like ours, a kind 
of demigod. — Now Monsieur de Condom, you are going to think 
me very presuming ; but it seems to me, that if I had the honor 
of being a priest, and of being permitted to approach his Majesty, 
I would not be silent in regard to the scandals of which we are 
witness.” 

“ Is this a reproach. Monsieur de Fenelon ?” 

“ Do not force me to say yes. I must consider you as very 
thoroughly convinced of my esteem for you, to dare touch upon 
such a subject ; I who rebuked my nephew for having ventured 
to find, blemishes in the talent of Father Bourdaloue, am much 
bolder to hint at any in your conduct. — Well, I must confess, at 
the sight of the irregularities which the king practises more and 
more openly, I have sometimes said to myself, ‘ Does Monsieur de 
Condom do his duty ? Does he speak to the king ? Has he 
tried — ’ I know very well, that you are not his confessor, but 
what matter ? You will perhaps ask me why I have thought of 
you rather than so many others. Well, sir, if it is an injustice, 


AND THE KING. 


73 


be proud of it ; it is a proof that there is no one whom I con- 
sider as more capable than yourself of making the voice of I’e- 
ligion sound authoritatively. But be sure that I am not the 
only one who has had this thought. Stay, here is a letter from 
Arnauld — ” 

“ From Arnauld.’' 

From Arnauld, the first man in the French church, — after 
you. There is first a page of praises. You shall read it nres- 
ently — ” 

“No.” 

“ As you please. But this, you will read.” 

Bossuet took the letter. 

“ There is however a verumtamen^ a hut '' — wrote the patriarch 
of Port Royal, — “ of which I fear much, that Monsieui- de Con- 
dom will have to give account to God. It is that he has not 
had the courage to say anything to the king.” 

“ Would he have done it himself?” said Bossuet, much more 
affected than he wished to appear. “I admire those who — ” 

He did not continue. 

“ Go on,” said M. de Fenelon, coldly. 

“ I am wrong,” resumed Bossuet, “ I am wrong ! I ask your 
pardon for it, — I ask pardon of God,” he added, sighing. 

The marquis held out his hand to Bossuet. He grasped it. 

“ Let me see ; let me read this letter again. Give account to 
God! He is right. Ah! Monsieur de Fenelon 1 Do you think 
my conscience has never told me this ?” 

“ And you have been able to keep silence !” 

“ Twenty times I have resolved to speak ; twenty times my 
tongue has been powerless. All that I have been alle to take 
upon me, has been from time to time to introduce subjects of 
conversation, which I hoped to be able to turn in this direction. 
But the king is ingenious. He is afraid of me. So long as I 

7 


74 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


confine myself to generalities, he listens, he answers, he says th^ 
most sensible things in the world ; as soon as I seem to be ap- 
proaching himself, — behold ! he comes straight up to me, but in 
order to talk to me of something totally difierent. He compli- 
ments me upon my works ; he thanks me for the care I devote 
to his son ; — how am I to go on !” 

“ It is difficult, truly ; but — ” 

“But it is my duty, you are going to say. I know it; may 
God help me to remember it ! Yes, I promise you ; I will try ; 
I will try again. And when you write to Monsieur Arnauld — ” 

“ His majesty sends for Monsieur de Condom. His majesty 
awaits him.” 

One of the pages thus spoke ; and he had not finished, when 
the king himself appeared at the end of the avenue. 

Our two speakers looked at one another. And as Bossuet 
prepared to follow the page ; “ Au revoir, Monsieur de Condom,” 
said the marquis ; then in a low voice ; “ The king, there ; — God 
above ! and to-morrow I write to Monsieur Arnauld.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE KING AND THE PHILOSOPHERS. — THE ORIGINAL GROUNDS OF BOSSUEt’s HIGH 

REPUTATION. — CHANGE IN THIS RESPECT DURING THE SUCCEEDING CENTURY. 

A AioMENT afterwards, tlie king and tlie prelate directed their 
steps towards the chateau, but without exchanging a word. The 
king had only answered Bossuet’s salutation by a slight move- 
ment of his head, and then walked on before. 

We shall soon rejoin them ; — let us first finish with our 
council* 

The discussion had continued. As Bossuet had gone on with 
his conversation with M. de Fenelon, — the preeminence had in 
fact devolved upon the youngest of the remaining members. 
The Abbe de Fenelon conversed too well, not to be the first 
wherever Bossuet was not present. 

There was a profound silence when the king appeared. They 
glanced at one another without a word. Not that they feared 
being overheard, for he was at the distance of twenty or thirty 
paces, and only remained, moreover, for a few moments ; — but, 
besides the fact that his presence never failed to produce a cer- 
tain impression even upon those who saw him daily, — it was 
very rarely that he was seen in this part of the park. That same 
admirable tact, which enabled him to converse well on so many 
subjects which he had not studied, prevented him from touching 
upon those to which he was decidedly a stranger. Accordingly, 
he liked our philosophers^ but only at a distance ; since this ave- 


76 


THE PREACHER 


nue had become their domain, he had never set his foot in it. 
This was well known, and some malicious wits commented upon 
it in whispers. “ The king* is afraid of the geniuses,” they said, 
as Bussy did. But it might have been answered, that he was 
afraid of them, as a good general is afraid of the enemy. It is 
not cowardice but prudence to avoid an encounter, when one is 
not sure of having superior or at least equal forces. It requires 
much learning {esprit) to be afraid of genius {esprit)"^ as Louis 
XIV. was afraid of it. Moreover, there were not wanting bish- 
ops, whom the philosophers’ avenue inspired with equal awe, 
and who would have found themselves quite as much out of 
place there as he. “ What is the meaning of Nyciicorax in dom- 
icilio P\ he one day asked the Bishop of Orleans, — these words 
in one of the Psalms having caught his attention. “ Sire,” an- 
swered the learned prelate, “ it was one of the kings of Israel, 
who was very fond of solitude.” Imagine this man making 
comments on Isaiah ! 

When the Marquis de Fenelon rejoined the company, he 
said, “ I brought misfortune with me, gentlemen. I commenced 
by interrupting your conversation, and now, you see your master 
is carried off from you. After all, I lose more by it than you 
do, for you will see him again, I shall not. And yet I should 
much like to hear you resume your conversation upon Isaiah.” 

^ Well, return to-morrow,” said one. 

“ You permit me to do so ? To-morrow then, I shall not fail.” 

“ Have you remarked,” said the Abbe Fleury, “ with what de- 
termination Monsieur de Condom avoids expressing his opinion 
of Father Bourdaloue ? I have several times endeavored to lead 
him to speak upon the subject ; he always expresses admiration, 

* Esprit at that time designated learning, as well as wit in the strict 
acceptation of the word. i*, ' 

f The owl in his home — Vulgate. Psalm ci. 7. 


AND THE KING. 


11 


but in a few words. Have any of you been more fortunate ? In 
any other man, one would be apt to believe that jealousy had 
something to do with it, — but in him, — with such a reputation, 
with such elevated sentiments — ” 

“ Perhaps it is on that very account,” said the Abbe de la 
Broue, “that he is so sparing of his praises. No matter how 
much we may admire Father Bourdaloue, — Monsieur de Condom 
knows very well that we admire him much more, — that we place 
him much higher. Thence his embarrassment. Public opinion 
acknowledging none his equals, he feels that he cannot praise 
any one without indirectly exalting himself. Thus, he says a few 
words in order to be just, and stops there, in order to remain 
humble.” 

“ That is it !” was the general acclamation. 

Was it really this ? We shall not decide. Who knows 
whether.Bossuet himself would have been able to do so? There 
is often but a hair’s-breadth between modesty and pride ; from 
pride to jealousy the distance is still shorter. 

It is true, that Bourdaloue was not, strictly speaking, a rival 
for Bossuet. It is too common to consider the latter as an orator 
only. In certain respects this was cori*ect, and his reputation for 
oratory is well founded, but in a historical point of view it is a 
mistake. In 1675, six or seven years after he had ceased to 
preach regularly, — Bossuet the orator, was considered far be- 
hind Bossuet the controversialist, the savant, the advocate of 
Gallicanism, Father of the churchy as he was called at the 
time of the famous assembly of ’82, and as La Bruyere did 
not in ’95 scruple to call him to his face in the Academy.^ 
It is one of those facts, in history, which escape your attention, 

* In Lis discourse upon the occasion of Bossuet’s reception. “ Let 
us anticipate the language of posterity, and call him a father of the 
Church:^ Upon which Maury observes, that he might have said he kief 

1 * 


78 


THE PREACHER 


unless it be paiticularly directed to them, — but to prove whicli, 
comes a crowd of evidence, as soon as you think of looking for 
it. From the moment that Bossuet ceased pi-eaching, the elo- 
quence of the pulpit was considered, if not beneath him, at least 
beneath the position which he occupied in the church of France. 
Even his funeral orations, the most beautiful of which belong to 
a later period than this, were, in the eyes of the public, scarcely 
more than incidental productions. They were highly praised, it 
is true, — but no one appeared to think that anything more was 
expected, — and it was far from entering the minds of any that his 
reputation was ever, in any way, to depend upon these discourses. 
And as he kept but too faithfully during the last nineteen years 
of his life, his resolution, — expressed in 1685, in the funeral ora- 
tion of the Prince de Conde, — “ no more to solemnize the death 
of others,” — this opinion had time to become universal. Three 
years after his death, the Abbe (afterwards Cardinal) de Polig- 
nac,* succeeded him in the Academy, and in the ostentatious dis- 
course, in which it was the custom for each one to set forth, with 
so much pomp, the smallest merits of his predecessor, — he says 
but a few words of the oratorical triumphs of the illustrious de- 
ceased. The Abbe de Clerambault, director of the Academy, is 
still more brief; he contents himself with saying, that Bossuet 
“ had allowed his rivals to obtain that su})reme rank in sacred 
eloquence, which he was fully able to have secured.” Seven 
years later, in the funeral oration of the Dauphin, Massillon de- 
scribes Bossuet as a man “of great and felicitous genius, — the 
ornament of the episcopacy, — a bishop in the midst of a court, 
— a man possessing every talent, and cognizant of every science, 

of the Fathers, since he was tl)e chief in eloquence. But La Bruyere 
was not alludiujj to eloquence at this tiine ; — the whole of the passitge 
proves this. 

* The autlior of '■'Anti- Lucretius'' 


AND THE KING. 


79 


— and the Father of the seveileeiith century, who, if he had 
been born in the early ages of the Church, would have been the 
light of their councils, and would have presided at Nicoea and 
Ephesus.” Splendid eulogies, it may be perceived, — but not a 
word of his reputation as orator, unless Massillon intended to in- 
clude in the vague expression, “ a man possessing every talent,” 
the little that he considered there was to say on that point. It 
is true, that Father de la Rue, — charged with the funeral oration 
of Bossuet at Meux, — entered more into detail, and was more 
just, — but opinion was otherwise formed, and La Rue himself, 
in this discourse, does not appear to think it of much importance 
to set forth the oratorical merits of a man whom he considers as 
possessing so many other titles to immortality. 

This was, accordingly, the reputation of Bossuet, at the com- 
mencement of the eighteenth century ; — these were the intrench- 
ments, — if the expression may be used, — behind which it was to 
await the shocks of a period of irreligion and audacity. The 
shocks were severe, the defeat prompt and easy. More and 
more forgotten as an orator, the bishop of Meaux was at the 
same time crushed by some as the author of the revocation of 
the Edict of Nantes,^ — by others as the persecutor of Fenelon, 
— by the infidels as a Christian, — by the Ultramontaines, as a 
Gallican, — in fine, by everybody, from every sort of motive, 

* It is very difficult to know exactly the part he had in this. Some 
historians accuse him of having advised it ; others, particularly the Car- 
dinal de Bossuet, declare, that he was not even consulted. One thing is 
certain, — that he had contributed more than any other, either to excite 
the suspicions of the king against the Protestants, or to inspire him with 
the idea, that he had the right and the power to do what he did. An- 
otlier thing still more certain, is, that no one tlianked Louis X IV. more 
loudly for it, nor accepted more fully the legality of the act, than Bossuet. 
See his Folic y gathered from the Scriptures,” Book vii.. Chap. 9 and 10. 
“ Those who would not have a prince use severity in matters of religious 
principle, are in an impious error.” 


80 


TT[E PREACHER 


whether just or unjust. The Protestants said not a word ; the 
surest method of allowing the numerous pages which he had 
written against them, to be forgotten. And in the midst of the 
assaults of which religion was the object, the most zealous ad- 
mirers of Bossuet, if there were any left, had quite enough to do, 
without devoting themselves to his defence. 

However, towards the beginning of the last half of the cen- 
tury, when the philosophical party found itself powerful enough 
to give its adversaries a little respite, the latter felt, as it were, a 
pang of remorse, for having so entirely abandoned such a man 
to their opponents. But the reestablishment of Bossuet as a sa- 
vant, a controversialist, or as one of the Fathers of the church, 
was not to be dreamed of ; besides the Encyclopedia was then in 
existence. So an expedient was sought for, — one was happily 
found, and Bossuet the orator arose radiant from the ruins of 
the other Bossuet. Some details in respect to this revolution are 
to be found in Maury, who had a great deal to do with it. La- 
harpe has also written its history, — at least so far as he is con- 
cerned. He confesses that he resisted a long time before recog- 
nizing the superiority of Bossuet ; but once convinced of it, he 
says he was floored hy admiration^ {herrasse d’’ admiration^) and 
so completely floored, we may add, that it seems to us he went 
rather too far in his description of it. 

However, he was not the only one, and we would fain repeat 
here, what Fenelon said to his uncle, — “ that one may he infatu- 
ated with a great man as well as with a /ooZ.” The pristine 
glory of the name of Bossuet having gradually reappeared, and 
being shed altogether upon one part of his former titles to great- 
ness, the necessary result of this was a little exaggeration in the 
praises which were bestowed upon him. 

We might discuss this matter much further, but we will leave 
it. What we wished to show, was, that it is the same in regard 


AND THE KING. 


81 


to Bossuet’s reputation, as in regard to many old institutions, 
which have so thoroughly changed, that their name has come to 
designate something entirely different from its first meaning. Cer- 
tainly, if his funeral orations contain beautiful ideas upon the in- 
stability of human greatness, the history also, of these discourses, 
contains a lesson which is not wanting in significance ! If their 
author could re\dsit the world, what would be his reflections, on 
perceiving that his glory now principally depends upon that, 
which was formerly considered but as a slight accessory ! 

. The ex] lanation of the Abbe de la Broue was accordingly ap- 
proved of. and the council separated. 






CHAPTER y. 


IMPRESSION MADE BY VERSAILLES UPON A STRANGER. — INFLUENCE OF THE COLTIT 

UPON THE WHOLE OF FRANCE. IMPORTANCE GIVEN TO TRIFLES. ABSOLUTE 

POWER OF THE KING. 

The Doge of Genoa might well say, that the most extraordi- 
nary thing he observed at Versailles was his being there him- 
self; — but an ordinary stranger would have been much less 
embarrassed in his decision. Be that as it may, not the' least 
of the curiosities of the court of Louis XIV. was the constant 
motion, the conversations, the promenades, the perpetual goings 
and comings. With the exception of the humming, — for the 
gravity of the monarch seemed to have communicated itself to 
his humblest valet, — this chateau of Versailles was not unlike a 
gigantic bee-hive. On the side of the gardens, particularly, — 
unless the weather were bad, — not an instant passed, without 
several persons having either entered or come out of the many 
doors which there opened; and as the weather must be very 
cold or very rainy to prevent the king from walking severa 
times every day, this prodigious activity continued nearly the 
whole year. It would have been much too bourgeois to remain 
in the chimney-corner when his majesty was out of doors. “The 
rain at Marly does not wet one,” said to the king one day a car- 
dinal who followed him in the midst of a heavy shmver, and who 
was advised to take shelter within doors. “Thus,” says La 
Bruyere, “whoever will consider, that the countenance of the 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 83 

prince makes the whole of the courtier’s happiness, that he oc- 
cupies himself, and satisfies himself, all his life in beholding it 
and being beheld by it, — will understand in a measure how 
the saints can make the beholding God their whole glory and 
felicity.”* 

Thus, the aspect of the gardens of Versailles on a fine day, or 
a beautiful evening, had something abou* it almost fabulously 
splendid. But, frequent as were the objects which might re- 
mind one of the presence and hand of a king, nothing was easier 
to forget, than that you were at the central point of a kingdom, — 
at a seat of government. Versailles always had a holiday as- 
pect ; you might easily have believed yourself at a place of 
amusement, whence its master had carefully banished all that 
could remind one either of care or toil. You might have 
walked for hours in the populous galleries, in the park with its 
groups of courtiers, without dreaming that these people had 
anything else to do, save to walk about like yourself, or any- 
thing else to wish, save to live and die in this place. And you 
would have been doing the greater part of them no injustice, for 
they very rarely remembered the existence of anything beyond the 
court. This oblivion, so ably brought about by Louis XIV., is 
to be found in men who seem the most incapable of it. The 
author of “ Characters,”! is more liable to it than any one else. 
In his chapter entitled “ Of ihe Sovereign and of the Republic f 
he has in vain struggled to rise to a level with the most elevated 
maxims ; at the end of the chapter it is easy to perceive that he 
has not once quitted Versailles. 

The court was all in all. This way of thinking had even 
passed into the language. How many times, instead of saying all 
the court, the expression used was, all France /j; But this way of 

* Chapter viii. The Court. t La Bruyere. 

% Even the fashionable oath, “ May I be hung !” would have been too 


84 


THE PREACHER 


speaking, which was so familiar to Madame de Sevigne, to Dan- 
geau, to St. Simon, to all the great noblemen of the time, and 
alas, also to Racine the ‘plebeian gentleman in waiting, — this way 
of speaking, we say, was not altogether the consequence of their 
looking upon, or imagining they looked upon the people^' as so 
profound a nonentity ; there was at the bottom of it, a very tan- 
gible fact, and one not very flattering to the nobility. They 
called themselves “La France,” only on the condition of being 
nothing at all ; they only represented France, in order to pros- 
trate themselves in her name at the foot of the throne, and the 
more exclusively they used their ancient right of despising the 
people, the more they ought to have felt, that it was the only 
one which remained to them. But no, it appears that they did 
not perceive it, or rather, that they dared not perceive it ; and 
although this, after all, was a very fortunate thing for the coun- 
tiy which they had ruined so many times, and in so many ways, 
yet we cannot help feeling some synq^athy with the chagrin of a 
La Rochefoucault and a St. Simon, at seeing so many people 
of heart and head, forced to throw away their lives in useless 
promenadings, and frivolous conversations about nothings. It 
is true, that these nothings did not seem so to those who were 
constantly occupied with them. Little matters always become 
great matters, in proportion as men interest themselves in 
them ; and this same St. Simon, sometimes so good a philoso- 
plier, had not his equal for elevating a trifling question of van- 
ity or etiquette into an affair of state.f 

plebeian. The noblemen said, “ May I be beheaded 1” Richelieu had not 
refused them this right. 

* “ After all, what is the nation ?” said the Regent one day to Stair, 
the English ambassador. “ I confess it is no great thing,” replied the 
Englishman, “ so long as there is no standard raised,” i. e. no fighting to 
be done . — Letter from Stair to Stanhope. 

f “ In vain were courage, honor jmd industry combined in the soul of 


AND THE KING. 


85 


“ It is difficult for us,” says a modern critic, — “ with our habits 
of regular occupation, to picture to ourselves faithfully this life of 
leisure and gossip. Our days are passed in study or in business, 
— our evenings in discussions ; — of gossiping there is little or 
none. The noble society of our days, which has retained in the 
highest degree the idle habits of the last two centuries, — has 
done so only at the expense of remaining ignorant of the ideas 
and ways of the present.^ In any age which advances this is 
inevitable ; — but at that time the age was not advancing. One 
man alone moved on, and provided that the eyes of men were 
fixed upon him, they might be sure of not being left behind.” 

In the midst of these perpetual conversations, the language 
had made such progress, that it became at last more elegant than 
the manners. The more we examine the history of this reign, 
the more remnants of barbarism do we find concealed beneath 
its brilliant exterior ; — yet the most astonishing thing is, not to 
find them there, but to perceive how far the most reasonable and 
liumane persons were from feeling the absurdity and horror of a 
number of things, the very remembrance of which is revolting to 
us. But how was it possiUe not to look upon all as beautiful 
and good in a country viewed through the medium of the splen- 
dor of Versailles ! How criticize a machine, the creaking of 
whose wdieels was so faintly heard above the sound of fountains 
and balls, and the flourish of trumpets ? 

It is only towards the end of Louis XIV.’s reign, that we be- 
gin to perceive some traces of opposition, properly speaking, in 
France ; that is to say, criticism directed in the name of the na- 

this worthy man, so eminently suited to ruin a kingdom. Like those 
madmen who are possessed of but one sole idea, he ’ saw nothing else in 
the universe but the privileges of the peerage.”— Lemontey. History of 
the Regency. 

* St. Beuve. — Article Hevignc. 


8 


86 


THE PREACHER 


tion again’st tlie king or the government. Until then, all dis- 
contents had a purely personal character. Excepting some com- 
plaints in regard to the taxes, — common complaints regarded as 
of so little consequence, that they were repeated in the pulpit, 
and even before the king, — every man complained for himself 
when he thought he had reason. If contented himself, no man 
thought of crying out for others. Crying out, moreover, is 
scarcely the expression, for any such cry would undoubtedly have 
died away beneath the vaults of the Bastile ; but even in secret, 
it appears that complaints were rarely of a political character. 
The affairs of state occupied but little attention, save in so far as 
private interests might be involved with them. If a campaign 
were talked of, — no one thought of inquiring its cause, — but only 
who was to command, and who was to receive promotion. If 
any question arose, it was but rarely that any one ventured to 
have an opinion upon its fundamental considerations ; if any dis- 
cussion took place, its object was rarely any other than that of 
trying to know or guess what the king’s decision would be. Thus 
there were none save the ministers, the ambassadors, and a very 
small number of clear-headed men, who had any connected 
views in regard to the policy or enterprises of Louis XIV. In 
the army, the general himself often gave himself little trouble to 
know exactly what he was fighting for. The subordinate oflicers 
did not imagine that it concerned them the least in the world.^ 

All being thus left to the supreme decision of the king, every- 
tiling reduced to the knowledge of what his orders would be, — 
every one eagerly caught at the slightest rumor ; all puzzled their 

* “ How should I know said the Captain ; and what difference does 
this fine project make to me ? I live two hundred leagues from the cap- 
ital ; — I hear it said that war is declared ; — I immediately leave my fam- 
ily and go to seek fortune or death, — provided that 1 have not much labor 
to perform.” — Voltaire. Bahouc. 


AND THE KING. 


87 


beads by putting together tbe most trivial occurrences, and giving 
significance and extent, to things utterly insignificant. Perhaps 
old Letellier came to the king a few moments sooner or later than 
usual ; or Monsieur de Louvois gave his valet a blow with his 
cane ; — a proof that he is irritated at some one to whom he can- 
not display it in the same manner ; — or Monsieur Colbert, (the 
JVorthy as Madame de Sevigne called him,) appears a little more 
or less icy than usual — or a courier has arrived from no one 

* Although the responsibility of the ministers was far from being in 
France the legal corollary of the king’s inviolability, this latter was es- 
tablished in fact, particularly since the Fronde, But as yet it scarcely 
went beyond raillery and portraits ; not daring to attack actions, — char- 
acteristics were seized upon. The pulpit itself sometimes set the ex- 
ample in this. “ One, (a minister,) always precijiitate, makes your mind 
imeasy ; — the other, with a troubled countenance, makes your heart beat ; 
this one presents himself before you from custom or politeness, and allows 
his thoughts to wander, while your remarks cannot arrest his attention ; 
— the other, still more cruel, has his ears stopped by his preoccupations,” 
etc. — Bossukt. Funeral Oration of Letellier. These words doubtless 
caused the exchange of many a smile, for it was impossible, in a few words 
better to describe the four principal ministers of the period. But Louis 
XIV. was not sorry to see those defects criticized in his ministers, from 
which he was, or fancied himself free. The more impenetrable Colbert 
appeared, and the more repulsive Louvois, — the more affable it pleased 
the king to be. Thus, this same Doge of Genoa said, that the king took 
his heart captive, but the ministers restored it to him again. 

In the discussions with Rome on the subject of the Assembly of 1682, 
the system of the responsibility of the ministers Avas used towards the 
pope with a boldness which would not have been tolerated towards the 
king. “ I blush,” says Bossuet, somewhere, “ for those who have not been 
ashamed to inspire his Holiness with such sentiments.” We shall not 
undertake to explain how this was reconcilable with the doctrine of papal 
infallibility. If the pope has been even once ill counselled, — wrongly in- 
spired, — there is not the least reason why he should not be again ; if Bos- 
suet thought himself obliged to blush for those who had influenced the 
pope in a certain direction, — were there not then others who could have 
blushed for those who influenced him in a Contrary direction ? — See note 
to Chap. XII. 


88 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


knows what province, — or has been dispatched no one knows 
whither. And if such is f je importance of the slightest action, 
the smallest word of a minister, — what will be that of the least 
gesture, the least sjdlable of the king, — particularly when he is 
known to be so impenetrable,^ — so completely master of himself 
as Louis XIV., — so that a movement, a look, a nothing may be 
the indication of a punishment or a reward, — of fair weather, or 
of a tempest ! 

* “ This will be a great king ; — he never says a word of what he 
thinks.” — Mazarin. 


■ CHAPTER VI. 


THE kino’s Ds 3PLEASURK. — MONTAUSIER AND BOSSUET IN THE CABINET OF THK 
KING. MADAME DE MONTESPAN REFUSED ABSOLUTION. 


The internal storm, which manifested itself on this particular 
day by such an alteration in his usual manners, must have been 
very violent. ^ ‘ 

In the first place, he had come into the park half an hour later 
than usual. This was an event in itself, for never was the life of a 
prince, or even of a private individual, who was master of his own 
time, more systematically regulated. Every morning, after rising, 
he determined upon the arrangements for the day ; everybody 
was enabled to tell, within a few minutes of the truth, where he 
would be at such an hour, where he would go at such another. 
This was another of the secrets of the art of ruling. “ If you 
wish to have your will habitually respected,” he wrote, thirty 
years after, to his grandson the king of Spain, “ you must show 
that you yourself are a slave to it.” 

Bui what was still more exkaordinary than this delay, was the 
physiognomy of the king. He whose countenance, at least in 
public, was so constantly the same, that it had without too gross 
a flattery been compared to that of a bronze or marble god, — he 
seemed almost to have lost all care for his dignity, all recollec- 
tion of his almost invariable habits. He hastened his pace, he 
slackened it ; he walked straight towards the basin of a fountain, 

8 * 


90 


THE PREACHER 


and did not perceive it until h was on the brink. The scvct: or 
eight lords and pages who followed him bare-headed, — for he 
Had not thought of desiring them to be covered, — neither dared 
to speak to him nor to each other ; a number of ladies had been 
met by him cn his way, and he had not saluted them, — he who 
was not able to meet a chambermaid upon the staircase of the 
palace, without carrying his hand to his hat ! 

All eyes far and near, followed him, but secretly. It was 
generally the contrary ; he loved to have it seem as if he were 
sought for, and gazed at, and not lost out of sight ; — the more 
eyes were fixed upon him, the more he was at his ease ; — and 
the courtiers took care not to neglect so easy a method of paying 
their court to him. But if at this moment his mind had been 
disengaged enough to observe what was passing, he would have 
only seen backs turned to him, and eyes gazing at the heavens, 
or the earth, so much was it dreaded to encounter a look now ! 
More tlian one heart throbbed without knowing why ; the very 
atmosphere seemed to contain something mysterious and un- 
usual. So well had he succeeded in disciplining them to live 
only by him, for him, and in him. The queen herself, never ap- 
peared in his presence without a little alteration of the voice, and 
a slight trembling of the hands;* and we will not venture to 
answer for it that Bossuet did not experience something of the 
same kind when his majesty called him. 

Thus, he was not sorry to find in the cabinet of the king, the 
two men, whose presence could the best reassure him; these 
were, the duke of Montausier, (his colleague in the education of 

* “ It was necessary to become ae(;ustomed to looking upon him, if an 
orator in haranguing him did not wish to expose himself to the risk of 
stopping short. The respect inspired by his presence, wherever he was, 
caused a sUence, and even a sort of fear.” — St. Simon. “ You see me 
here deprived of all grandeur,” he said one day at Marly to a foreign no- 
bleman. “ Sire,” said the latter, “ one would never suspect it.” 


AND THE KING. 


91 


the claii2:»liin,) and the Cure^ of Versailles, Monsieur Thibaut, an 
honorabh and honored priest. 

“ You are still here, gentlemen ?” said the king. 

“ Did not your majesty order us to wait ?” 

“ True ; I had forgotten it.” 

Louis XIV. forget ! Decidedly it was an extraordinary day. 
Bossuet lost himself in conjectures. 

“After all,” said the king, “it is just as well that you should 
be here. Remain.” 

And he sat down, as if not knowing where to commence. 
Louis XIV., embarrassed, and allowing it to be perceived ! It 
became more and more extraordinary; — but Bossuet began to 
guess. He began at least to foresee, confusedly, of what nature 
were to be the confidences of the king. 

However, there the king left them, motionless and standing. 
It is true that no one ever sat down in his presence ;f not even 
in the council of state, where the chancellor alone, on account of 
his great age, was seated on a small stool ; and the king had 
taken the precaution to have noted upon the registers of the 
chief master of the ceremonial, that he did not mean that the 
future chancellors should make this a precedent, and consider 
this favor as one of the privileges of their rank.J As for himself, 

* Versailles was not yet a bishopric, 

f “ I have seen the dauphin and his sons present at the king’s dinner, 
without his ever proposing to them to take seats. I have often seen 
Monsieur^ the king’s brother, present also. He handed the king’s napkin 
and remained standing. A little after, the king, perceiving that he re- 
mained, asked him if he would not take a seat. He made a reverence, 
and the king ordered that a seat should be brought him. A tabouret was 
placed behind him, but he did not sit down. Some moments afterward 
tlio king said, ‘ Pray be seated, my brother.’ Then he made another rev- 
erence, and took his seat.” — Sr. Simon. 

\ “ The king is reserved from policy. The fear which he has, that the 
French, — who easily take advantage of any condescension which is showed 


92 


THE PREACHER 


even with the arm , he never seated himself save in an arm-chair. 
One was carried among his effects, and it was always the first 
article installed in whatever place he put his foot upon the 
ground, if he were to remain in this spot only an hour. 

; “ Monsieur de Condom,” he said at length, “ this is the ques- 
tion. Madame de Montespan went this morning, to confess to a 
priest of Versailles, — Monsieur Lecuyer, I believe. He refused 
her absolution. Monsieur Thibaut here, says that this confessor 
only did his duty. There is Monsieur de Montausier, who is of 
the same opinion. These gentlemen will permit me to inquire 
yours.” 

It was not to look for Bossuet, however, that Louis XIV. had 
gone out. As soon as he learned from Madame de Montespan 
the affront which she had just received, he sent for the cure, and 
demanded from him, the repeal of the sentence pronounced by 
his vicar. The cure did not at first express himself in regard to 
the merits of the question ; he evaded it, by saying that a con- 
fessor had no account to give, and that a cure had no authority 
over inferior priests in these matters. The king did not insist ; 
he was still tolerably calm, and without discussing- the point 
with the priest, he called the Duke de Montausier, whom he had 
perceived in the neighboring gallery. The duke did not scruple 
to speak out ; he said that the confessor had done right, and the 
cure, seeing himself thus sustained, no longer feared to say as 
much. The king contained himself ; but feeling himself on the 
point of bursting forth, he went out ; and it was while walking, 

them, — should fail in the respect which they owe him, makes him retain 
a distant manner ; — and from his extraordinary benevolence, he would rather 
constrain himself, than furnish them with the smallest occasion for doing 
' anything which would oblige him to be displeased with them.” — Bussy 
Rabut'n. If the explanation is not a good one, it must at least be con- 
fessed, that it is perfectly courtier -hke. 


AND THE KING. 


93 


or rather wandering in the garden, that the idea . suddenly oc- 
curred to him, of summoning Bossuet. 

What did he wish ? What did he hope ? — One is always 
strongly inclined to believe what one desires ; hut the king 
must have left his usual coolness a great way behind him, to 
allow himself even vaguely, to hope that Bossuet could enter 
into his views. It may even be doubted whether among so 
many other less scrupulous bishops, any could have been found 
so complaisant as to go to such a length. — It was possible for 
them to shut their eyes ; — but it was another thing to blame 
the courageous priest who had dared to open his, and Monsieur 
de Harlay himself,* would have thought twice about it. 

So Bossuet did not hesitate. 

“ If I could think,” he said, “ that your Majesty seriously 
hoped to find me disagreeing with these gentlemen, I should 
ask what I had done to fall so low in his estimation. But I 
know too well his enlightenment, — his piety — ” 

“Well,” cried the king, “they agree. Because an obscure 
priest — ” 

“ An obscure priest ! — ” interrupted the duke. 

“ Obscure /” said the cure ; “ no. Sire. A priest is never ob- 
scui-e when he fulfils — ” 

“ Well,” he resumed, “ because a priest has had the audacity 
to judge his king — ” 

“ In the name of God, Sire !” said Bossuet, “ do not continue ! 
Do not submit so completely to the passion which misleads you — ” 

* Archbishop of Paris. He had, however, less right than any one else 
tf> censure the king’s morals ; and it was for that very reason that Louis 
XTV., or rather Mine, de Montespan raised him to the see of Paris. It is 
of him thaf it was said, that the orator charged with his funeral oration, 
only found two embarrassing points, — his life, and his death. One was 
however found to write it,— Father Gailliai'd, a Jesuit; but he was not 
allowed t''* deliver it. 


94 


THE PREACHER 


Louis dre>7 himself up ; this last word had offended him. 

“ — and which,” pursued Bossuet, “ you will soon be the first 
to condemn. A priest has dared to judge you! Alas! it is 
not he, — ^but you, yourself ! — ” 

“Myself!” 

“ Yes — in the very words which you have just pronounced. 
If Madame de Montespan were only that to you, which she 
should be, you would not declare yourself touched by the blow 
of which she complains.” 

Bossuet felt himself in a courageous vein; he could have 
wished Monsieur de Fenelon to be there. 

But the king no longer listened to him. 

“ What a scandal !” he murmured ; “ what a scandal !” 

These words, in his mind, were only applicable to the auda- 
city of the confessor ; the moment was scarcely favorable for an- 
swering him, that there was no other scandal in the whole matter, 
excepting that of his own conduct. The cure made an effort. 

“ If your Majesty,” he said, “ would take the trouble to ques- 
tion this priest ; — your Majesty would see whether the wish to 
cause a scandal has had anything at all to do with this ac- 
tion of his. — I know no man more unlikely — ” 

“ That may be ; but the best proof he could have given of it, 
would have been to hold his tongue. — ^After all, what difference 
does it make? Madame de Montespan will not commune; 
neither shall I ; what will have been gained ?” 

All this was so contrary to the usual tone, language and man- 
ner of the king, that the best thing was, to have patience, and 
wait for the termination of an anger, which, it might be seen, 
could not last long. But the wound was deep ; the monarch 
was still more offended than the man. Habituated as he was, 
to find in I'.is clergy a boundless docility,^ he was indignant 
* Exteniitlly, at least, — for he was more frequently the led than tlie 


AND THE KING. 


95 


now to stumble over a priest on his path. It made but little 
difference whether this priest were right or wrong; he was a 
priest, and the kingly instinct was wounded by this. Louis XIV. 
had no very thorough knowledge of history, — but what had 
most firmly remained in his memory, were the former enter- 
prises of the clergy against the authority of the crown, and he 
could not suffer even the appearance of a step towards a re- 
establishment of the humiliation of kings. 

On the other hand, he could not but feel the weakness of his 
cause, and this further contributed to put him beside himself. 
He saw this royal authority of which he had so exalted an 
idea, concerned in a matter where it had no hold, where it 
could not interfere, either legally or in deed. Left to himself, 
he would have distinguished better his proper part in the mat- 
ter. When Madame de Montespan came to him, indignant and 
breathless, to relate the occurrence, he had at first appeared lit- 
tle enough concerned by it ; it was she who had had the art 
to excite him, to call the passions of the king in aid of those 
of the man. There is no worse anger than that which comes 
on gradually, which is not directed towards any fixed object, 
and which one allows to be partially or entirely kindled by a 
person interested in exciting it. 

Bossuet, however, after having for a moment, feared to be 
left alone with the king, began to desire this. He discerned 
what there was factitious in this anger ; he understood that a 
frank explanation alone, could produce any result ; — but he also 
felt that the two other witnesses were in the way. After an in- 
stant of indecision an idea struck him. 

leader ; — but care was taken that he should always think himself master. 
Steele having published a parallel between Louis XIV. and Peter the 
Great, the latter was much flattered by it, but he said, — “ I have sub- 
jected my clergy, — while he obeys his.” 


96 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


“ Let US .retire, gentlemen,” he exclaimed ; “ his Majesty no 
longer finds our presence necessary here.” 

The king, already calmer, but more and more abstracted, 
mechanically made the half-polite, half-imperious gesture of the 
hand, with which it was -his custom to dismiss the people of 
his court. They saluted him and went out. But they were 
scarcely outside of the door, when the duke said to Bossuet, — 

“ Go in again ! go in again ! That was your idea, was it not 
I guessed as much, — ^go in quickly, — courage !” 

And he pushed him into the cabinet. 


T 


> 


CHAPTER VII. 


» 08 aUET ALONE WITH LOUIS XIV. UNUSUAL BOLDNESS. “ THOU ART THE MAN.” 

HESITATION OF THE KING. — BOSSUET GAINS A SLIGHT ADVANTAGE. 


The Duke de Montausier had really guessed the truth. Bos- 
suet had indeed resolved to return without delay, but he was far 
from being prepared for such a bold stroke. However, this 
was always the old duke’s manner of doing things ; there was 
never a day passed that he did not by his virtuous bluntness, 
put into an embarrassing situation some one of his best friends, 
and no one would have been more capable than he, of imitating 
Mentor casting his pupil into the sea, in order to force him to 
quit the island. 

It is true, that once in the water, poor Telemachus is very glad 
to have no one but himself to struggle against; Bossuet also very 
soon acknowledged that M. de Montausier had done him a great 
service. Would he have been sure of finding, an hour after, the 
courage which he was now forced to have ? 

The king had not changed his position. He knit his brow 
slightly ; it was rather surprise than anger. 

“ It is you !” he said. 

“ It is I, sire. I know that I am very bold ; but to call me, to 
order me to speak, was also to order me to be sincere. I have 
been so — ” 

“ Did I appear to doubt it ?” 

“ No ; but your majesty did not allow me time to be thor- 
oughly so. Will your majesty permit me to finish ?” 

9 


98 


THE PREACHER 


“ Go on ; you will probably tell me nothing which I do not 
know — ” 

“I am sure of it. Nothing Avhich has not been said to you 
an hundred times — ” 

“ A thousand times.” 

“ I do not doubt it Therefore, what I ask from God for you, 
is not understanding ; you have that ; but the strength to listen 
to and obey it. You know better than any one else, that you 
have not always this strength. ‘ For the good that I would, I 
do not,’ said an apostle ; ‘ but the evil which I would not, that I 
do I find two men in me — ” 

“ Ah ! these two men, I know them well !”^ cried the king. 

“ It is already something to know them, sire, but it is not 
enough. One of the two must perish. Why do ’yo you delay 
to condemn him to death ? In allowing you, as a king, to be 
exposed to more temptations than others, God has also placed in 
your hands more means of resisting them. All those qualities, 
solid as well as brilliant, of which we admire the union in your 
character, shall it be said that they have done nothing for you 
yourself, while they have made the happiness and glory of 
France ? You owe the high position which you have gained 
abroad among all the kings of Europe, perhaps as much to your 
firmness as to your victories ; at home also, everything proclaims 
that the reins of state have never been held by a firmer hand ; 
and in the very centre of power, there is a man who defies you, 
a man who remains disobedient to those laws of order and mo- 
rality which you have held up for reverence ; and this man is 
yourself!” 

The king made no reply. But it was not only because he 
had nothing to ans^\^r, — ^it was unhappily also because the com- 
mendations of Bossuel^ although joined with reproofs, and only 
* Historical. 


AND THE KING. 


99 


destined to make tlie latter, go down, had only too agreeably ca- 
ressed his pride. Bossuet had meant to put the remedy beside 
the evil, but had, in reality, only put the evil beside the remedy. 
So the king had soon abandoned himself to the charm of that 
species of n^usic so familiar to his ear ; deaf to all which might 
have destroyed its harmony, the little sermon which he had just 
heard, was reduced in his mind to three ideas, or rather to the 
three first halves of these ideas ; “ I am wise, I am resolute, I 
am great the three last halves, being lost in the abyss of his 
pride. 

The form of speech used by Bossuet, — a form, by the way> 
which we find in almost all the exhortations addressed to Louis 
XIV., either from the pulpit, or elsewhere, was one of the worst 
which could be used to such a man as the king. Far from 
being alarmed by the idea that there were two men in him, he 
caressed it complacently. Remark, in effect, that it is a two- 
edged sword ; pious and humble, you will groan as the apostle 
did, to feel the evil within you continually enfeebling the good ; 
self-satisfied, you will reverse the thought ; you will not say to 
yourself, that if there is good in you there is also evil ; you will 
say, that if thers is evil, there is also good ; and thus you will be 
perfectly at rest Thus did Louis XIV. ; thus, again, he deceived 
himself, when, many years later, old and unhappy, but so much 
the more a slave to pride, because he imagined himself free from 
it, he liked to repeat these lines of one of Racine’s paraphrases ; 

“ 0 God this cruel strife I 
I find within two men.” 

“ Mon Dieu, quelle guerre cruel le I 
Je trouve deux hommes en moi.” 

And confessors and courtiers repeated in chorus, that there were 
actually two men in him, and that God could not fail to pardon 


100 


THE PREACHER 


one of them for the sake of the other. Alas ! it is not necessary 
to be a king and to have courtiers, in order to whisper to one’s 
self the same language ! 

Bossuet perceived accordingly, that he had not gained much. 
However, he revolved the same ideas a few moments longer in 
his mind ; — perhaps he was not entirely displeased with it. All 
were so accustomed to praise him and to listen to his praises ! 
The language of a Corneille, of a Racine seemed only made to 
celebrate Louis XIV.'* 

“ Sire,” he at length said, — and this time the courtier was al- 
together merged in the archbishop, — “ you do not listen to me, 
or rather you only listen to me too much. I do not wish to re- 
tract my praises ; I believe them just ; I will repeat them at any 
time. But so long as you have not imposed silence upon me, I 
will also repeat my rebukes ; and then, not in my own name, 
but in the name of religion, of the salvation of your soul, I shall 
summon you to answer them. The law of God, the law of the 
diurch is explicit ; councils, popes, doctors, all agree ; excom- 
munication — ” 

Louis frowned. 

“ Do not be startled at the word, sire ; you know well, that 
I would be the first to sustain your crown against the thunders 
of a Boniface VIIL, or a Sixtus V. Such an excommunication 
you would defy, and you would do well ;f but take care, there is 

* And the Academy in particular, had only been created to stimulate 
and direct this employment of the language. See in 1728, in the dis- 
course at his reception, what the same Montesquieu, who had so ridiculed 
it at other times, says of it ; “ Above all, it is gratifying to see you work- 
ing at the portrait of the great Louis, — this portrait always commenced 
and never finished, — every day further advanced and more difficult. We 
can now scarcely realize that wonderful reign which you celebrate.” 

f Bossuet was quite right, but a Protestant might have remarked to 
him, that, if he who is excommunicated may be judge of the nature and 


AND THE KING. 


101 


another which cannot be defied. Pronounced or not it exists^ 
if you merit it, — in vain the Church may shut its eyes and not 
register it on the earth — it is nevertheless registered in heaven.” 

“ And you think — that I have incurred this ?” — cried the king, 
with a sudden start. 

“ Thou shall not commit adultery T 

“Adultery! adultery!” repeated the king, more and more 
agitated ; “ Adultery ! but it is the first time I ever imagined — 
In truth — it is — ” 

And he began to stride to and fro in the room, repeating every 
moment: “Adultery! adultery!” 

He spoke the truth. It was really the first time that he had 
applied this word to himself ; neither preachers nor confessors 
had yet ventured to pronounce it in so direct a manner that 
he was forced to understand that it involved himself.^ Not 
that he had not vaguely felt when it was by accident pro- 
nounced, that there was something beneath the word that he 
might take to himself ; but we do not like to examine too 

validity of this act, it is not very clear what is to become of its virtue. 
And this is not the only difficulty. If excommunication signify any- 
thing, it signifies vastly too much, for then it must be admitted, that the 
most pious and virtuous of men dying excommunicated, must of necessity 
be damned. If one shrinks from this consequence, excommunication is 
nothing more than a disciplinary penalty, a simple declaration, in virtue 
of which, the excommunicated ceases to belong to the Roman church. 
This is more reasonable ; but it is clear that Rome, in the time of her 
power, was very far from understanding it thus. 

* “ Tlum shall not commit adultery," is one of the ten commandments 
of God, the seventh in the Bible, and the sixth in the Roman Catholic 
catechisms. It is known that the Romish church has suppressed the sec- 
ond, (that forbidding the worship of images,) and makes ten only by divid- 
ing the last into two. It is difficult to understand, not from whence this 
fraud comes, for the motive which prompted it is sufficiently clear, but 
how it was dared. 


9 ^ 


102 


THE PREACHER 


closely into the merits of those questions, at the bottom of which 
a secret instinct tells us that we should find our condemnation. 
He had arranged the matter with himself as do those romance 
writers, whose plots contain the grossest adultery, and who con- 
sider themselves moral writers, because the worst is not there. 

“ And what is to be done ? What is to be done ?” he at 
length said, in the half interrogative tone of a man who sees 
very clearly what is to be done, but does not wish to see it ; who 
asks, but would be delighted if no answer were given him. 

“ What is to be done ? Your Majesty knows better than I do. 
First — Madame de Montespan must leave the court.” 

“ She will never consent to it — ” 

These words escaped the king with the rapidity of lightning. 
He bit his lips. 

“ Consent to it. Sire ! — Did I say a word about your supplica- 
ting her to go ?” 

The king blushed at finding himself understood, and began 
to walk faster than ever. He was evidently afraid of the proud 
Sultana. This was known to be the case, besides ; many proofs 
of it had been seen. “ She had a pride reaching to the clouds, 
from whose effects none were exempt, the king as little as any 
other person.”^ Not long before, she had openly chidden him, 
in presence of several persons, because her brother, the Duke de 
Vivonne, had not been included in a promotion of Marshals ; and 
the monarch had been not only seen to take a pen immediately, 
in order to add to the other names that of the Duke de Vivonne, 
but further, in the tone of a child caught in a fault, — to essay an 
excuse for himself by putting it to the score of the forgetfulness 
of the Minister of War. This, then, was the yoke which he 
dared not throw off, he the most imperious of men. Once sub- 
jected, the man who is most difficult to subject, is often more 


* Saint Simon. 


AND THE KING. 


103 


submisi? le tlian any other. — The more conscious a man is of his 
power, t ie less he thinks it to the interest of his glory never to 
appear weak. 

However, it is one thing to wear the yoke in silence, and an- 
other to confess to the wearing of it. Therefore a lively vexation 
was depicted in the countenance of the king ; what would he not 
have given to withdraw his unlucky confession ! But Bossuet 
had gone too far to let go his hold now, and the king’s vexation 
gave him the best of the game. “ Did I say a word about your 
supplicating her to go was almost an irony in itself. — 

“ I never would have believed,” he pursued, in the same tone, 
“ that I shoul(^ be obliged to remind the king, Louis XIV., that 
he is master at Versailles. Say one word. Sire — ” 

The king was silent, and continued to walk. 

“ Do you fear to speak this word ? — Do you wish that I should 
charge myself with it ?” 

The king stopped suddenly. To refuse this offer, would be to 
take upon himself the performance of an act, for which he felt he 
had neither strength nor courage ; to accept it, would be to re- 
new the confession of his weakness and terror, it would be be- 
sides the consummation of the sacrifice, and this idea filled him 
with dread. Not that he loved Madame de Montespan as he had 
loved Madame de la Valliere ; but she was the life of his court ; 
she had the art of amusing him ; him of whom Madame de Main- 
tenon said, many years afterwards, that he was no longer amusa- 
ble ; she was in fact quite as invaluable to him, perhaps more so, 
fi-om her wit, rather than her beauty. “The court of Madame 
de Montespan, “ says Saint-Simon, “ was the centre of wit, — and 
wit of so peculiar a turn, so delicate, so fine, but always so natu- 
ral and so agreeable, that it came to be distinguished by its 
unique characte * This wit was her own, and she had the art 
* “ One may still perceive this charming manner,” — wrote St. Simon 


104 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


of communicating it to others:' ISTow, of all tlie methods of cap- 
tivating Louis XIV., this last was the surest. Besides being by 
nature rather wise than witty, this prince, with a very high 
opinion of his genius and his intelligence was somewhat inclined 
to distrust himself in regard to wit, properly speaking ; he did 
not even venture to he as spirituel as he could have been, and, 
like all people in this case, he was infinitely obliged to those who 
could put him at his ease, — and it was not only in a tete-d-tete, 
that Madame de Montespan possessed this influence. In the 
midst of a numerous circle, among all the wittiest men and 
women of the court, she still knew how to draw him out, to sus- 
tain him, and to keep him in the most prominent place, or at 
least to make him share it. 

Thus, to the ties of his guilty attachment, were joined those 
of habit and necessity ; to those of the heart, those of the head. 
It is not astonishing, that at the moment of breaking all these, 
he should hesitate, uncertain and disturbed. 

“ No,” he said, after a long silence, and as if with effort ; “ I 
will give no orders. I am resolved, as you see, — do not exact 
more than this. Go and see her ; act for the best. Only bring 
her to the point where I am, and then — " 

Tilts was not what Bossuet wished. These words left too 
many doors still open. In fact, they shut none. 

“ I fear — ” he said. 

“ But go.” 

“ But if—” 

“ Go.” 

There was no reply to he made to this. 

nearly forty years after this time, — “ in those ladies yet remaining, who 
were brought up by herself and her sisters, or connected with them. 
They could be distinguished among a thousand others even in the com- 
monest conversations.” As this is the only thing St. Simon ever says in 
praise of her, it may be believed. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


BOSSUET WAITS UPON MADAME DE MONTESPAN. COURT PIETY. — UNEASINESS 

OF MADAME DE MONTESPAN. MADAME DE LA VALLIERE. ROYAL CONFES- 
SORS. APPEAL TO BOSSUET’s AMBITION. APPEAL TO MADAME DE MONTES- 

PAN’s conscience. — BOSSUET LOSES WHAT HE HAD GAINED. 

Most assuredly it was not the first time that Bossuet found 
himself in one of those combinations of circumstances which 
make the stoutest hearts throb more quickly. He never, without 
a kind of shudder, recalled the agonies of the famous day, when, 
an orator at seventeen years, he had culled his first laurels at the 
hotel de Rambouillet; he never retraced without horror, that 
night far more terrible, the night of '•'‘Madame is dying , when 
awakened by that thunderstroke, whose sound his eloquent words 
were destined to immortalize, he had hastened to open to Madame 
the dooi-s of eternity. 

But, if he had often been more agitated, and with more reason 
for being so, he had certainly never found himself in a more em- 
barrassing or false position. Sent to Madame de Montespan, in 
whose name is he to speak ? In the king’s name ? But the 
king has given no commands; he who has not his equal in the 
art of willing, it is plain that if he has not said, I will, it is be- 
cause in reality he will not. In the name of religion ? Madame 
de Montespan is in too good health to be thinking already of 
the sta^‘ of her soul."^ 

“ Thou shalt make of thy King, thy God, — 

Thou shalt go on Sunday to mass, 

In order to show thy dress. 


106 


THE PREACHER 


Not that she had not, like eveiybody else, certain sentiments, 
(or more correctly speaking,) certain habits, of devotion ; for in 
fact, although the time had not yet arrived when Madame de La 
Fayette said ; “ Without piety, there is no salvation to be found 
any more at court than in the other world,” it is a great error to 
attribute entirely to the influence of Madame de Maintenon upon 
Louis XIV., and his influence upon the court, that impulse to- 
wards religious observances, devoteeism^ if it may be so called, 
which took place subsequently. With the exception of some 
avowed unbelievers, more boasters than blasphemers, the society 
of the day was, and never had ceased to be, religious, in so far 
at least, as that a certain necessity for religion, piety and fliitli, 
was universally acknowledged. Hence those inconsistencies 
which shock and bewilder us, hence those contradictions be- 
tween faith and works, which one is almost tempted to believe 
impossible, but which at that time seemed only quite simple 
and natural. There is to be found in Mme. de Sevigne, (ac- 
companied by details which we would not venture to repro- 
duce,) the adventure of a lady who reproaches the accomplice of 
her immorality with not having been fervent enough in his devo- 
tions to the Virgin. Louis XIV .’s access of devotion did not 
then create as many hypocrites as might be believed, and as 
many historians have asserted; it only brought to light that 
which already in great measure existed, we will not say in the 
hearts, but at least in the habits of his courtiers.^ 

Thou shalt see thy father and mother, 

At most once every year, — 

But when thou shalt come to die, 

Thou shalt have recourse to the sacramentsP 

The Commandments. A parody of the day. 

* There is in general too great an inclination to accusations of hy- 
pocrisy. Because a courtier who has had very little religion, becomes 
Buddenb* pious from seeing his king become so, — it does not follow that 


AND THE KING. 


107 


Madame de Montespan sometimes quitted the king to go and 
say her prayers. During Lent, she had her bread weighed ; a^ 
Easter she would on no account have omitted to take the com- 
munion. But although this altogether external religion, which 
was also that which the king practised, does not appear to 
have been infected with hypocrisy, it is certain, that even at that 
time, few persons could have been found whose piety was less real- 
ly resident in the heart. Accustomed to withstand all restrictions, 
she wished to hold to religion, but only by a thread, and Bossuet 
felt that this thread would break in his hand as soon as he began 
to pull it. 

Disturbed, almost disheartened, he had notwithstanding, the 
self-command to betray nothing to the courtiers who were crowd- 
ing into the great gallery, for everybody had gone in there, and 
curiosity was at its height. It was still worse when he was seen 
to direct his steps to Madame de Montespan’s apartment. A 
short time before he had quitted the king, a great movement had 
taken place in this gallery. The ladies had risen from their 
seats, the men had ceased walking about ; silence had succeeded 
to the buzz of voices, and immobility to restlessness. Followed 
by more than twenty persons, a woman had slowly passed through 
all this^crowd, and all eyes were lowered, all heads were bowed. 
It was the Marquise de Montespan. 

A short time afterwards another woman appeared. She 
was followed by four attendants. All rose, and saluted her ; 

the only cause and end of his piety is that of his master. Religion be- 
comes very soon a necessity ; after having drawn near to God in the eyes 
of men, it is not at all impossible that you should become really devoted 
to his service. “ Alas ! there are no longer any hypocrites !” cried the 
Abbe Poulle, about the middle of the last century. The expression was 
strange, — but its meaning profound. When there are no more hypo- 
crites, it is because there is no more piety ; when there are no more in- 
sects to be found, it is because the cold has destroyed them. 


108 


THE PREACHER 


but she had not reached the middle of the gallery, before the 
fBonversation had already recommenced behind her. This was 
only the queen. 

Bossuet found the anti-chamber crowded. He had never be- 
^ fore been seen there. Not that he had never visited the mar- 
quise, but he had taken care never to come save with the king ; 
he was particular to show that it was not for her he came. The 
king had understood this, and she still better. Great then was 
the astonishment of the occupants of the anti-chamber. But 
scarcely had he appeared, when a door was opened. 

“ Madame will not receive to-day. She is indisposed.” 

And away went the courtiers, not without exhausting their 
conjectures as to the cause of this new incident. Dismissed at 
the moment when the bishop entered, they could not doubt that 
it was an arranged thing. They were mistaken. It was accidental. 

“ Announce Monsieur de Condom,” he said in a low voice to 
the valet who was re-entering the apartment. 

And as the man hesitated ; 

“ By order of the king,” he added. 

The valet bowed. A few moments after, both of the folding 
doors were opened to their full extent, as if for the king in per- 
son. But this was not an honor which Bossuet could take to 
himself. With the words ; “ By order of the kingf were it but 
a footman, etiquette commanded that he should be received like 
a prince of the blood ; and the princes of the blood themselves 
made it a point, in such cases, to conduct as far as their anti- 
chamber, men whom they would not have deigned even to look 
at in that of the king. 

Madame de Montespan had risen, but without leaving her 
place. It is unnecessary to add that her indisposition was a fa- 
ble, unless indeed this name should be given to the uneasiness 
which agitated her ; but in that case, indisposed^ would be far 


AND THE KING. 


109 


loo feeble an expression ; she should have been called ill, very- 
ill, for she had suffered horribly, and so much the more, that she 
had not yet allowed any one to perceive it. It was even for the 
very purpose of removing all suspicion, that she had gone out a 
short time previous, in order to re-enter by this gallery, that the 
curiosity of the courtiers, aroused by the king’s ill-humor, might 
be able to find no alteration in her. But the greater the con- 
straint she had put upon herself, the greater was the necessity 
that she should at length allow her anguish to have free course. 

Besides, in shutting her door to the crowd, she had hoped to 
re-open it to the king. Still confident, if not in his love, at least 
in that royal pride upon which she had always practised with 
such success, she forced herself not to doubt that the king had 
already found some way of getting out of this difficulty ; but 
what she feared more than all, was the effect which the species 
of excommunication pronounced against her, would have in the 
end upon the mind of her lover. And this was a well-founded 
apprehension. Great as was the audacity of Louis XIV. in 
braving public opinion so long as it remained silent, it was 
equalled by his readiness to become uneasy at all manifestations 
which might compromise his glory; Madame de Montespan 
knew he was not the man to hesitate, if he found it seriously 
and decidedly necessary to choose between her and the dignity 
of his crown. It was upon this point that she felt the need of 
being reassured, and her feelings may be imagined, when, in 
place of the king whom she expected, she heard Bossuet an- 
nounced, and Bossuet coming hy order of the king. By order 
of the king ! In the mouth of a page or a valet, this formula 
would have been only the preface to a tender and consoling mes- 
sage ; in that of Bossuet, it seemed a condemnation in itself. 

“ Madame,” he said. 

She had at first reseated herself, with a certain calmness, and 

10 


no 


THE PREACHER 


appeared prepared to listen. But suddenly witli one of those 
rapid changes which sometimes alarmed even Louis XIV. him- 
self, she exclaimed ; 

“ When does Mme. de la Valliere make her profession?” 

Her voice was harsh and trembling; her eyes had suddenly 
become fixed and piercing. Bossuet felt himself subdued, at 
least for the moment; and though he had perfectly compre- 
hended all the despair and sombre irony of these w^ords, he had 
not the power to let her see that he comprehended, nor to reply 
otherwise than as to a simple question. 

“ Towards the end of next month,” he said, “ or in the begin- 
ning of June.” 

A slight smile curled the lip of the marquise. Her little tri- 
umph was more complete than she had ventured to hope. With 
her biting wit, there was for her no grief or anguish which tlie 
success of a sarcasm could not for the moment alleviate. 

“ And who will preach the sermon ?” she added, in the same 
tone. “ Will it be again the Abbe de Fromentieres ?”* 

“ No, madame.” 

“ And who then ?” 

“ Myself, probably.” 

“ I knew it. And you came to see, did you not, whether there 
were any means of making this sermon serve for two ?” 

She had reckoned too much from her first victory. The less 
one is accustomed to meet with raillery, the more it at first stu- 
pefies and embarrasses ; endeavor to prolong it, and you will find 
that a serious man has you at an advantage. Madame de Mon- 
tespan had not finished her sentence, before Bossuet was avenged ; 
a calm look had been sufficient. 

* The Abbe de Fromentieres, quite a distinguished orator, had preached 
in 16Y4, on the occasion of Madame de la Valliere’s taking the nun’s habit. 
The final profession could not take place until after a year of novitiate. 


AND THE KING. 


Ill 


“ Madame,” lie said coldly, “ you spoke more truly than you 
intended ; in the midst of the annoyance which I feel, at being 
forced to broach so delicate a subject to you, you could not bet- 
ter pave the way for me. Yes, you are right. The contempt 
with which you and your friends have overwhelmed Mine, de la 
Valliere, has not been able to open so wide a chasm between you, 
' that any one can fail to perceive what you have in common. 
Your name is connected and will be connected with all she has 
done or will do. And this sermon of which you speak to me, 
what will it be, after all, but a plea against you ?” 

“ And the king, monsieur, the king !” 

“You do not understand me. His majesty knows the respect 
which I have for him ; and if I ever should hiil in it, which God 
forbid, it would not be in the pulpit, in presence of the church. 
No ; do not imagine that I have the least idea in the world of 
arousing the malice of the court by any allusion.^ Allusions I 
Should I find them necessary ? Do you not perceive, that it 
does not depend upon me, whether this discourse be considered 

* Bossuet kept his promise perhaps too strictly. Whatever was the 
indulgence to be observed towards the pious Carmelite, there was some 
affectation in not saying a word of her past conduct, and in throwing so 
thick a veil over such pubfic faults. There was accordingly a universal 
disappointment, and it is probably this to which Madame de Sevigue al- 
ludes in writing on the following day to her daughter, that Monsieur de 
Condom had not been as god-like as had been expected.” (Letter of June 
8d, 1675.) The Abbe de Fromentieres had been bolder, not only in his 
discourse, but in his very text. “ What man having an hundred sheep,” 
etc. “ When he hath foimd it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. 
And when he eometh home he calleth together his friends and neigh boi-s, 
saying unto them ; ‘ Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which 
was lost ' ” Luke xv. 4, 5, 6, It is true, that these words occurred in the 
gospel for the day, but this day had been expressly chosen by the peni- 
tent, in order that no one might be surprised at the preacher’s taking 
them for lus text. 


112 


THE PREACHER 


from one end to the other, as a long and continued allusion ? 
And if I should be silent, — if the pulpit should remain vacant, 
do you know who will be there ? Do you know what preacher, 
quite otherwise heard from me, will say more by her presence 
alone, than the longest and boldest of discourses ? The queen, 
madame, the queen ! Upon seeing the outraged wife herself, 
conduct to the altar, humble and repentant, one who has wronged 
her, — what will hinder the thoughts of those present from re- 
curring to another who still wrongs her ? — This word offends 
you, madame. — Well, I withdraw it. Yes; I understand, how in 
the midst of such seductions, you have not really had a cor- 
rect idea of your faults and your perils ; I understand that one 
who has lived so near to the throne, has some right to the indul- 
gence which we are forced to exercise towards those who have 
the misfortune to be seated there. The greater the king, the 
more you have been able to deceive yourself in regard to the na- 
ture and tendency of the errors in which he has invited you to 
partake. But this excuse, if it be one, was admissible six years 
ago ; -admissible by men, that is, — if not by God. But now — 
Ah ! if you could read in the hearts of men ! If you knew what 
condemnation may be concealed beneath much adulation 1 And 
God, who can never be deceived — ” 

“ No, — but who is made use of to deceive others ! — Why two 
weights and two measures ? What have I done more than the 
king ? • You have just said yourself, that it was he who carried 
me away. How does it happen, that another gives him the ab- 
solution, which a priest refuses to me ? Come, monsieur, come, 
there is something in all this more scandalous than either my 
conduct or his. — I have no need to continue.” 

It is certain, that the method of proceeding of the king’s 
confessor, was not one of the least scandals of the day. It is 
difficult to conceive how a priest, even an ambitious one and a 


AND THE KING. 


113 


complete courtier, even fascinated, like every one, by the gran- 
deur of Louis XIV., could dare so far to sport with holy things, 
as to grant him under existing circumstances that sacramental 
absolution without which a Catholic cannot take the communion. 
What passed between himself and his confessor, on these occa- 
sions ? Did he promise to put an end to his excesses ? It is not 
very probable ; — for, either it would have been a lie, and we do 
not think that he would degrade himself so far as to lie, — or, the 
promise would have been a sincere one, and there would have 
been some attempt to fulfil it. — Was he silent upon this point ? 
It is still less probable. — Did he order the confessor to be silent? 
Did he request this from him as a favor ? Did he threaten to 
address himself to another ? — It is impossible to guess. It is 
however, certain, that the two Jesuits who played successfully so 
conspicuous a part in this sad comedy, did not adopt a very good 
method of banishing the “ Provincial letters” from remembrance. 
It is true that Father Ferrier, the predecessor of Father La 
Chaise, showed, from time to time, a disposition to resist. — A cu- 
rious spectacle must have been presented at these times. The 
Jesuit and his penitent played at hide and seek, and opened their 
eyes at each other, and the whole affair at length resulted in an 
agreement, of which the conditions remained a mystery, but 
of which the public result was another communion, which nec- 
essarily supposed another absolution. As to Father La Chaise, 
“ the Easter holidays,” says Saint Simon, “ often give him a 
politic illness,” — which failed not to attack him the evening 
before, or even the very morning of the day when he was to 
receive the king’s confession. The latter, as we may well 
think, did not insist upon looking into the matter. He waited 
twenty-four hours, and the good father growing no better, he 
begged him to send a substitute. La Chaise had his man 
ready. It was always one of the least cunning, or the most cun- 

10 * 


114 


THE PREACHER 


ning of the order. In both cases the confession was finished in 
short order ; the same with the absolution.'^ 

This was precisely" what had now taken place for the first time, 
for father Ferrier had died in the close of the year 1674, and it 
was only in the beginning of 1675 that father La Chaise had 
received this coveted situation, which he was destined to keep 
for thirty-four years. Madame de Montespan had done every- 
thing she could, to dispose him in her favor. She was accord- 
ing .y not the person to declare it scandalous that he should not 
forbid the king’s performance of his Easter devotions ; but when 
she was offended she did not look very closely into matters. 
AVas she not heard in 1680 to inveigh loudly against him, and 
to wish his dismission, beeause he did not force the king to break 
with Mile. Fontanges ? She had actually got so far as to think 
herself entitled to all the rights of a legitimate wife. 

However it may be, the objection was a plausible one, and it 
was only too true, as she had said, that two weights and two 
measures had been used. 

“ You are sti iving to embarrass me,” said Bossuet, “ and in 
this you have almost succeeded. But even suppose I gave you 
the pleasure of hearing a bishop condemning a priest, what 
would you gain by that? If I should say that the king’s confes- 
sor was wrong in authorizing him to commune, does it follow 
that yours was wrong in forbidding you to do so ? Ah, reflect 
well ; if you should pass your life in collecting and noting down 
all the faults and inconsistencies coirimitted by the ministers of 

* We may however add, that if such laxity could be pardoned, it would 
be so more readily to Father La Chaise than any other. He was a man 
natmallyof a good, gentle, obliging disposition: “a good gentleman,” 
says d’Aguesseau,— “ who liked to live peaceably, and to allow others to 
do so.” Further, it was not he who counselled the Revocation of the 
Edict of Nantes. It appears that he would even have opposed it, if he 
had dared. 


AND THE KING, 


115 


religion, you would not by that efface one letter of the law which 
they preach to you, and by whose authority you are condemned. 
It n'as then a very useless trouble, be it said in passing, which 
you ha e taken in making inquiries — ” 

“ 1 1 ” 

“ This promptitude to exclaim against it, would complete iny 
certainty, even if I had not already every proof of it. Yes, 
madame ; since you have begun to fear the little influence I may 
have upon the mind of the king, you have sought out — or ordered 
to be sought out, ail the details of iny life. My servants, my 
friends, all those who approach me, have been thoroughly sound- 
ed ; there is not one of your courtiers who would not have been 
enraptured to bring you information of some scandal — ” 

“ Ah ! Monsieur — ” 

“ Do not deny it ; it would have been certain of a favor- 
able reception. What would you not have given, above all, to 
succeed in discovering something criminal, or even suspicious 
in my relations with Mile, de Mauleon And nevertheless, 
permit me to ask what that would have proved ? Because you 
had discovered something to destroy my credit in the king’s 
eyes, would it have been excusable for you to continue to lose 
yourself in the sight of God ? What a consolation ! But that 
consolation you have not had — ” 

“ You may believe me or not,” exclaims the marquise, with 

* Some authors have gone so far as to say, that Bossuet had secretly 
married her, with the permission of the Pope. Jurien, in his Pastoial 
letters'' speaks of it as an averred fact. Voltaire appears to believe it. 
Roman Catholic historians regard it as a fable, and we are of this opinion 
but still, in rejecting the idea of a marriage, we are forced to admit, that 
all is not quite clear in regard to the affair. See, for further details, 
the Memoirs of Mme. de Maintenon," by La Baumelle, and the ^'Memoirs 
of Bossuet f by de Bausset, However this may be, Mme. de Montespan 
had been able to discover nothing. 


116 


THE PREACHER 


that vivacity with which a passing idea is seized upon when one 
wishes to draw advantage from it, — ‘‘ but I was not so sorry for 
it as you seeem to think. Whatever desire I may have had, 
and why should I deny it? to discover some blemishes in your 
gi-eatnes5, it could only increase in my eyes, after being subjected 
to such an examination, and as I had made a violent elibrt in 
order to withdraw my esteem for a moment, it could not be 
unpleasant to restore c to you again. Have you ever even per- 
ceived that it has mdergone the least diminution ? Ask the 
king if, whenever anything advantageous and honorable has 
presented itself, I have not been the first to remind him of 
your merits. I will not say that you owe to me your being the 
Dauphin’s preceptor, but if I had been ill-disposed towards you, 
perhaps you would not be in this situation. Quite recently too, 
when the king was spoken to of a promotion of cardinals — ” 

Bossuet saw the trap. It was not the first time that she had 
showed a disposition to purchase his approbation and silence 
by services, and though slie had in effect rendered him several, 
he could neither permit her to consider him as under obligations 
to her, nor to hope to enchain him by gratitude. 

So he hastened to interrupt her. 

“ Madame,” he said, “ I know very well that I may lose by ex- 
posing myself to your displeasure ; and as to that which I should 
gain in preserving myself in your good graces, the devil has told 
me of it more eloquently than you have. When the share which 
I had in the resolution of Madame de la Valliere was known, 
were there not persons found, who concluded from it, that I 
wished to rid you of a rival ? It was only necessary that I should 
allow you to believe this, in order to assure myself of your friend- 
ship. But no, I protested against it. Conscience, had spoken — ” 

“ And ambition also,” she said, excessively piqued by the 
failure of her manceuvre. 


AND THE KING. 


117 


“ AihIx ,ion ! You have just said the contrary. Did you not 
give me to understand an instant since, that with a little com- 
plaisance, I might be secure, so far as you — ” 

“Yes; that is what the devil said to you. But you have re- 
flected upon it ; you have thought that it would be finer to ad* 
vance without my aid ; that in order for that, you only had to 
secure my banishment — ” 

“Well, madame, continue.” 

“ That then, master at length of the king’s will — see ! the devil 
is so cunning ! — why may he not have whispered the name of 
Mazarin in your ear, or for all I know, of Richelieu ! — ” 

And once having launched forth, Mme. de Montespan was not 
a woman to stop before she had expended all her anger. 

But of all situations into which we may bring ourselves by 
talking, there is none more insupportable than when we feel 
that we are going too far and injuring our cause. We would 
stop, but we cannot. We must go on; we must 'finish our 
sentence, our period; and at each word that we add, we feel that 
it is a word too much. And thus it was with the poor marquise. 
Ably managed, this accusation of ambition might have given her 
some little hold upon Bossuet ; but she saw that her exaggerated 
expressions only resulted in rendering it null, and dispensing 
Bossuet from even replying to it. A Richelieu under a Louis 
XIV. ! In the midst of all this torrent of words, what she most 
desired was, that he would interrupt her, even if it were by re- 
sentful replies; but he was careful not to do this. When your 
enemy is rapidly working his own ruin, it would be folly to stop 
him. Her vehemence went on increasing, and soon it passed all 
bounds. She repeated in yet stronger terms, all that she had 
already said ; she seized upon Bossiiet’s first replies, and com- 
mented upon and misrepresented them, until at length exhausted, 
-breathless, ashamed of having so ill pleaded such a poor cause, 


118 


THE PREACHER 


she burst into tears, and covering her face with her hands, cried ; 
“ Unhappy that - am !” 

A violent spirit is always the most easy to subdue, after one 
of those fits of anger during which it has appeared indomitable. 
It is in some sort exhausted by the effort to keep itself as long as 
possible in this state of exaltation. It is not appeased but weak- 
ened, and in the first moment when all seems ‘broken within it, 
it is ready for the first who may come to take possession of it. 
The occasion was a favorable one for making one last effort. 

He approached her and took her hand. She raised her eyes 
— she was no longer the same person. Surprise and respect had 
replaced anger. 

Then, with a voice still grave, but affectionate and feeling, he said : 

“ You weep ; ah ! blessed be God, for you are already too calm 
for me to attribute your tears to anger or despair. Their source 
is purer, is it not? Let me think so ; let me say so. Yes, you 
have some idea of your misery, — ^you begin to fathom the abyss. 
It is frightful. But it was necessary you should. Why not 
rather to-day than to-morrow ? For after all, in spite of your 
being seduced, dazzled, fascinated, you had enough of good sense 
remaining, to see that a position like yours, is always, of neces- 
sity, precarious and frail. I comprehend, alas ! that the public 
repentance of Mme. de la Valliere has not succeeded in arousing 
your conscience ; but that the king’s conduct towards her should 
not have opened your eyes, that in seeing forsaken, her who was 
so dear to him, you should not have said to yourself — 

“ But, monsieur,” she interrupted, “ what had I time to say to 
myself ? The king loved me, there was the whole thing. Did 
it ever enter my mind to calculate whether his love would end 
before mine did ?” 

“ It ended, however, before that of — ^but we will leave that. 
And besides — ” 


AND THE KING. 


119 


He hesitated. 

And besides ?” she said, with her eyes fixed inquiringly upon 
him. 

“ If the king’s love had been regulated by yours — ” 

« Well r 

“ It would have been long ago all over. You do not love the 
king — you never have loved him — ” 

“ I !” she cried, “ I !” But her expression was rather that of 
inquietude than indignation. Evidently she did not venture to 
deny it ; the eye of Bossuet had penetrated into the very depths 
of her mind. 

“ No, madame,” he continued, “ no, you do not love the king, 
— or rather, — yes, it is the king, the king of France, the master 
of twenty millions of men, the homage which surrounds him, 
the splendor which is reflected upon you — it is this which you 
loved, and which you still love ; but Louis the man, you do not 
love—” 

“ She was silent, and cast down her eyes. An inexplicable in- 
fluence seemed to press upon her ; the voice of Bossuet was but 
the voice of her conscience. 

“ Thus,” he slowly resumed, after a moment’s silence, “ in tram- 
pling the holiest duties under your feet, you have not even the 
common excuse, of a love too strong to be conquered by honor ! 
But we will speak no more of the past ; the world will forget it, 
and it only rests with you that God should forget it. Now, 
therefore, listen to me. The king’s salvation, yours, and that of 
so many unfortunates whom you encourage to sin, is in your 
hands. The king has not yet the resolution to order you to quit 
the court ; retire then of yourself, and the king will bless you for 
having had pity on his weakness. In seeing you struggle, he 
will struggle also. Rejoiced to find himself stronger, he cannot 
but esteem the more her who will have forced him to be sc. 


120 


THE PREACHER 


Love must have an end some time ; perhaps soon ; esteem will 
never end. Decide, Madame, decide — ” 

She remained motionless. It was a good deal gained to have 
brought her thus far ; but he wanted an answer. 

“ You are silent,” he continued, after a long pause. 

“ The king awaits me ; what shall I say to him ? He has be- 
gun to feel uneasiness in regard to the state of his soul, and you, 
— loaded with his favors, will you refuse to recognize them, save 
in perpetuating by your presence the temptations under which 
he groans ? But no, — that cannot be ; — yet another step, Mad- 
ame, — in heaven’s name, — a word, — a single word — ” 

She opened her lips to reply. What would she have said ? 
We cannot tell ; perhaps she herself did not know. But a slight 
noise was heard, and two ladies appeared. It was Madame de 
Thianges and the Abbess of Fontevrault, the two sisters of Mad- 
ame de Montespan. 

By turning, in order to salute them, Bossuet spared himself 
the pain of seeing the alteration which their arrival had pro- 
duced in the physiognomy of her whom he had believed almost 
subdued, — and whom perhaps, he might have subdued but for 
this unlooked-for succour. Madame de Thianges was a woman 
of much levity, incapable of entertaining any scruples in regard 
to the conduct of her sister.^ Madame de Fontevrault had in 

* Notwithstanding, like many others, she had had her slight attacks 
of devotion. Madame de Sevigne relates, (Jan. 5th, 1674,) that she dined 
with Madame de Thianges, and that a footman having presented a ghiss 
of wine to the latter, — “Madame,” said the convert gravely, “this man 
does not yet know that I have become religious.” This devotion com- 
menced and terminated like a situation or a charge ; the expression become 
religious, was used as we say become a lawyer, or become a merchant. 
The principal exterior sign of conversion with women, was to wear no 
more rouge ; the fit over, the rouge resumed its place. “ This rouge,” 
says Madame de Sevign6, “ is the law and the prophets ; it is upon this 
rouge, that the whole of Christianity turns.” 


AND THE KING. 


121 


reality some few, but she had determined to seem to hear and 
see nothing, — and it had become quite a matter of course, to see 
her displaying her abbess’ cross in the saloons of the king’s 
mistress.* The court was their atmosphere, their life, their all ; 
they would have shuddered at the idea of no longer seeing there 
her who sustained them. It was accordingly not by accident 
that they entered their sister’s apartment at this moment. They 
were still ignorant of the affair of the confession ; but officious 
people had hastened to inform them of Bossuet’s visit to the 
Mai'quise. Although informed of it separately, they had no need 
of an understanding, in order to arrive at the same moment, with 
the sole purpose of putting an end to a conversation, which they 
felt augured no good either to their sister or themselves. 

They arrived just in time, as we have seen ; and if Bossuet did 
not immediately perceive the effect produced by their arrival, 
Madame de Montespan did not leave him in error. He had only 
to glance at her to see that all was lost, and as she accompanied 
him out, — for he considered it proper to retire, — he said in a low 
voice, — 

“ Well ?” 

“ The king is master. Monsieur,” she replied, aloud and in a 
tone of the utmost indifference. 

“ And I shall make him remember it,” he replied, like herself, 
aloud. 

» “ People would have been edified by it, if the king had desired says 
Duclos. “ She was,” says St. Simon, “ the most talented of the three sis- 
ters, and perhaps, also, the most beautiful. With this was united a rare 
learning, for she was acquainted with theology and the fathers ; she was 
versed in the Scriptures, and she understood the learued languages. Al- 
though she had been made a nun in the most cavalier manner, her regularity 
in her abbey was exact. Her visits to the court never caused anything 
to be said against her reputation, save in regard to the singularity of 
seeing the wearer of such a habit participate in favors of such a nature.” 

11 


CHAPTER IX. 


bossuet’s letter to the king. 

And in effect, less than an hour after, the king received the 
following letter :* 

“ Sire,— 

“ Will your Majesty pardon me, if I do not present myself 
in person to give an account of my mission. It is not necessary 
that you should know the details ; I will even venture to beg 
you not to demand them. 

“ You have taken, and have forced me to take as arbiter, the 
person of all others most interested in retaining you in the state 
from which you appeared to wish for deliverance; you have 
taken a step, in regard to the interests of your soul, which nei- 
ther you, nor any other king, would be willing to take in regard 
to one of your most unimportant jjrovinces. I thought for a 
moment, that, in default of more elevated considerations the 
feeling of your dignity would be enough to sustain you ; you 
have not chosen that it should be so, and as if your own weakness 
were not sufficient, yOu have taken refuge in that of another. 

“ I went whither your Majesty sent me ; but with the firm reso- 
lution not to accept, either as a defeat or a victory, the failure 
or the success' of this proceeding. If it had succeeded, I sliould 

* Authentic. See, in Memoirs of Bossuet, several letters written by 
him to Louis XIV. in the course of this same year, 16'75. 


THE TREACHER AND THE KING. 


123 


use tlie same language. I should think that I insulted you in 
telling you that a separation had been agreed to ; I sliould con- 
iine myself to repeating, as I do at this moment, that it is yours 
to will, yours to command, and that in this case you cannot as a 
king be feeble, without being as a Christian, criminal. 

“ Do not, however, conclude from this, that Madame de Montes- 
pan was entirely deaf to my exhortations. Perhaps the above 
lines have already caused you a secret joy. — Undeceive yourself. 
If duty has not conquered, still the struggle has been violent. 
Yes, like you, she trembled ; then she strove to banish thought. 
She succeeded. Ah ! Sire, God preserve you from succeeding 
in this ! Madame de Montespan could not become guilty with- 
out your becoming more so ; she cannot remain guilty, without 
your becoming a hundred times more so, since the sacrifice to 
be made is a hundred times more cruel for her, who owes you 
all and is nothing without you, than to you, who owe her no- 
thing and are everything without Jier. 

“ In truth. Sire, it must be. This woi’d sounds ill to your ears ; 
you have not often heard it save when it has left your own lips. 
No matter ! I will go on. It must be, I say again, or there is 
no salvation to he hoped for. One of the first things which 
Madame Montespan said to me, was, that she did not see how 
you had the right to perform your Easter devotions, while she 
was forbidden hers. I evaded the question. I replied, that 
that did not prove it was wrong to have prohibited hers ; but 
with you why should The evasive: why should I not tell you 
plainly, if we can feel the least doubt in regard to our fitness for 
approaching the holy supper, the authorization to do so which 
we may have received from a man, is null before God."^ Now, 

* Every reasonable Roman Catholic is forced to arrive at this conclu- 
sion, if he be a little pressed on the subject of confession. One of two 
things, — either absolution is valid fi'om the sole fact of its being pro- 


124 


THE PREACHER 


you have those scruples at present ; you cannot banish them , 
you cannot silence them between now and Saturday, unless you 
submit, and submit fully and humbly to the conditions which 
God dictates to you. Without that, warned as you now are, 
you will be sacrilegious. My heart is oppressed at the thought, 
that in my struggles to save you, I should only have succeeded 
in making you more criminal ! 

“ Courage then. Sire, courage ! Here is an opportunity for a 
more glorious victory than any of those for which the world has 
applauded you ; and be assured that on your death-bed you 
would not give that for all the others.” 

When Bossuet read over this letter, he was alarmed at it ; no 
one had ever yet talked in this strain to Louis XIV. At first he 
resolved to soften the expressions a little, without changing any 
of the thoughts ; but he had scarcely re-copied a few lines before 
he tore them. After several new attempts, he finished by folding 
the original, and sending it just as it was. 

In the meantime, he walked to and fro, he could not remain 
still. Joy at having acted aright ; — fear of having it ill-received, 
tlie pious desire of saving the king, and the worldly fear of 
wounding him; all these mingled feelings agitated him, and 
whirled through his mind. He calculated the steps which his 
messenger had to take.'^ Sometimes he wished for his letter 
again in order to change it ; sometimes he was rejoiced that this 

nounced, — or it is conditional. If it be valid facto, it must be ad 
mitted, that the greatest villain in the world, absolved by a priest, is 
free from all sin ; if it be conditional, the priest is but an adviser ; he 
gives you directions in regard to the means of being absolved, but he does 
not actually absolve you. 

Absurd, or null — one of the two must of necessity be this pretended 
right of loosing and binding. 

* Bossuet, as the p eceptor of the Dauphin, had hi i residence in the 
?5hateau. 


AND THE KING. 


125 


was no longer in his power. According as one phrase or an- 
other recurred to him, he passed from discouragement to hope, 
from confidence to fear. 

Suddenly, he paused. His countenance cleared up, and after 
a few seconds of refiection, he ordered his chair. 

ll^k 


CHAPTER X. 


BOSSUET VISITS BOURDALOUE. CLAUDe’s LETTER. BOSSUET COMMUNICATES THB 

STATE OF THINGS IN THE CHATEAU TO BOURDALOUE. THE LATTER AGREES 

TO ALTER HIS SERMON FOR THE FOLLOWING DAY. — BEGINS TO READ IT TO 
BOSSUET. 

It was about eight o’clock, and the last rays of twilight had 
just abandoned the streets of Versailles. In a dwelling, close be- 
side the parish-church, (at the present time cathedral,) of St. 
Louis, the shadow of a tall man, slightly stooping, could be seen 
passing to and fro behind the curtains of a windovv. With 
sharp eyes, and a little attention, it might have been perceived, 
from the movement of his lips, that he was speaking quite 
rapidly ; but he did not appear to be addressing any one. He 
was making no gesticulations ; but from time to time one of his 
hands was raised as high as his breast ; this hand appeared to 
hold a manuscript, upon which he cast his eyes. Otherwise, 
nothing could be more regular than life movements to and fro, — 
they might have been compared to those of a pendulum. 

It was there that Bossuet was to stop. As he approached the 
house, he perceived the shadow, and smiled ; which smile prob- 
ably signified : “ / do not find it necessary to run about my 
room so much.” 

“Father Bourdaloue,” he said to the footman who opened the 
door. 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


12V 


“ Yes ? well, his shadow, then, — ^for one can see that at twenty 
paces from here.” 

“ My lord,” said the footman, half-confused, half-inclined to 
laugh, — “ he expects some one, — it is himself who desired me — ” 

“ To lie ? I much doubt it. Why not say at once how it is ? 
He is learning his sermon. — You say that he is expecting some 
one ; is it so ?” 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“Never mind ; I must see him.” 

The footman took a light and went on before him. Arrived 
at the first story, he knocked at one of the doors on the landing- 
place. It was opened. 

“Welcome, monsieur Claude,” said Bourdaloue. — “Eh ! but — 
it is Monsieur de Condom — ” 

“Monsieur Claude!” said Bossuet, in the greatest astonish- 
ment, and fixing his eyes on the Jesuit with a sort of distrust ; — 
“ what Claude is it 2” 

“ Claude — the minister — ” 

“ Claude of Charenton 2” 

“ Of Charenton. 

Bossuet could not recover from his surprise. Besides, this 
name of Claude sounded disagreeably to his ear. The minister 
of Charenton was of all the Protestants of France, and even of 
Europe, the best match for the bishop of Condom. The latter 
had had famous specimens of this, in their celebrated conference; , 
and although his party had proclaimed the victory his, he knew 
better than any one, that if he had not been positively beaten, 
neither had Claude any more than himself.* 

* It is known, that each afterwards published his account of this con 
ference. But neither of these two accounts, made long after, present the 
characteristics of truth. They have, in*common, a most singular deficiency 
in )' hilosophy. The smallness of t-ie circle within which two champions 


128 


THE PREACHER 


“ In fact,” resumed Bourdaloue, “ you know him better than I 
do, for I have never seen him 

“ And you expect him ?” 

“ He has requested an interview.” 

Through whom did he request it ?” 

He wrote to me ; here is his letter — would you like me to 
read it to you ?” 

“ Let me have it.” 

“ Sir and much respected brother — ” 

“ Brother P’’ murmured Bossuet. 

“Why not?” asked Bourdaloue. “You have often used this 
word in speaking to the Protestants.” 

This was true; but even in bestowing on the Protestants the- 
name of brothers, Bossuet always appeared slightly displeased 
when they retui’ned him the same appellation. It was some- 
what as if a great lord should call you my friend^ to whom it 
would be improper for you to apply the same term. 

He did not answer. 

“ Sir and much respected brother, — 

“Finding myself at Versailles for some days, it would be grat- 
ifying to me not to leave without having seen, at least once, a 
man whose reputation” — I pass over some sentences ; here is the 
close ; — “ do not mistake, I beg of you, as to the object of my 
request. There is no question of a discussion ; — we will talk of 
anything you like, of preaching, if it suits you, for my name is 
perhaps well enough known to you, for you not to be ignorant 
that I am one of the trade ; and if either of us should happen 

of their size could combat for so long a time, is astonishing. All Bossuet’s 
arguments rest on the authority of the church ; on the very thing which 
i-equires proof more than all the rest; and Claude, too faith ful'to the di- 
alectics of the age, does not seem to perceive that he would find strength 
in a frank and serious appeal to common sense, history, and the Bible. 


AND THE KING. 


129 


to leave the neutral and pacific ground to which we confine our- 
selves, we will mutually recall each other to order. 

‘‘Accept, etc. Claude.” 

“ And you agreed ?” said Bossuet. 

“ Certainly ; he is a man to he known. I would not have 
sought it, but I am enchanted with the opportunity. What tor- 
ments me is, that I do not know my sermon.” 

“ Not at all ?” 

“ If it were not at all, you would not see me in the pulpit to- 
morrow.” 

“ You begin to know it then ?” 

“It is just that. I have been studying it these forty-eight 
hours.” 

“ Ah ! if you had believed me, you would have been relieved 
from this sort of trouble long ago.” 

“ It was necessary to begin by endowing me with your mind, 
before giving me your method.” 

“ Always so much humility, Monsieur Boudaloue — 

“ Always so much genius. Monsieur de Condom.” 

“ Flatterer ! Have you still what I wrote you on the subject, 
nearly ten years ago ?” 

“ The letter on improvisation ? I have lent it to the Abbe de 
Fenelon. To him, who extemporises already, it will be of use. 
To return to my sermon, I begin to know it, as you say, but I do 
not know it. I at first replied to Monsieur Claude, that I would 
receive him on Monday next, after the fetes ; but he is obliged 
to be at Charenton on Sunday. I was obliged to say that I 
would expect him this evening. I shall make up for it by study- 
ing a pan of the night.” 

“ If you dc not spend it in writing,” said Bossuet. 


130 


THE PREACHER 


“In writing. I ! My sermon has been finished since day be- 
fore yesterday.” 

“Do you never re-touch your discourses?” 

“ Never, when I have "ce begun to commit them. My head 
would not stand it.” 

“ Listen,” said Bossuet ; “ one is sometimes forced to do that, 
which one has never done before. I do not know what is the 
subject of your sermon ; but there will very probably be more 
or less in it to be changed — ” 

“ It is difficult.” 

“ To be omitted — ” 

“ That is easier.” 

“ To be added — ” 

“ Do you dream of such a thing ! The evening before ! But 
what is it? You have a very peculiar air — ” 

Bossuet told him all. He saw that the king, undecided, wa- 
vering, ready to relapse, needed a check which would recall him 
to himself ; he came to ask Bourdaloue to undertake this, and to 
awaken him from the pulpit, by something strong and daring. 

“ You see how matters stand,” added he. “ You see that I 
have done what I could. The words I have spoken have been 
almost useless, the letter will be forgotten in presence of three 
lines from Madame de Montespan. You alone still have some- 
thing in your power. If he be not conquered, he is moved ; the 
occasion is a favorable one, and may, perhaps, never return. 
You may now obtain for religion and morals the most glorious 
victory which they have to gain in France.” 

And as Bourdaloue was silent ; 

“You do not reply. Would you hesitate? Will you force 
me to exact as a duty, what I now ask as a favor? ) liave tlie 
paternal right — ” 

Bourdaloue did not compose with difficulty. Ideas were what 


AND THE KING. 


131 


he was less wanting in than anything else, for we have as many 
as three and even four sermons by him upon the same subject, 
without these discourses having anything in common. But he 
liked to write at his leisure ; calm and silence were necessary to 
him ; and beyond everything, it was necessary that he should 
have time enough before him to study his discourse when he 
should have finished it ; and while Bossuet was never bolder, nor 
more copious than when he was hurried, Bourdaloue no sooner 
felt himself so, than he grew frightened and lost his power. Not 
that he had not often deceived himself in this respect, and found 
himself, when the moment arrived, more expeditious than he had 
ventured to hope ; but it was not in his power to prevent his first 
feeling from being one of fear and discouragement. So much 
the more in this case, since it was not merely a question of alter- 
ing rapidly some parts of a discourse already studied, but to 
throw himself abruptly into the midst of one of the most delicate 
afiairs with which a priest can intermeddle. It is not difficult, 
then, to understand what an efibrt he was obliged to make, to 
answer, “I will try.” And even this he said in a low v ce, and 
with a sigh. 

“ And you will succeed,” said Bossuet. 

“ I will try,” he repeated. “ Will you help me ?” 

“ Most willingly — if I can.” 

“ If you can ! I am going to read you my sermon ; you 
must explain to me more in detail, what you think I should 
add. Yes, in truth, it is a favorable occasion. Ah ! if I had 
only known of it eight days sooner !” 

“ Well ! you would have only had eight days more of dis- 
quiet.” 

“ Yes ; but the sermon — ” 

“ The sermon will only be the better for it, perhaps. Read on, 
however.” 


V 


132 THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 

Bourdaloue took his manuscript. 

“ Sire, — 

“ If orators could ever — ” 

“ The text, if you please,” said Bossuet. 

“ Ah ! I had forgotten. Judcei signa petunt, et Greed sapien- 
tiam queerunt ; nos autem predicamus Christum crtLciJixum^ 
Judeeis quidem scandalum^ gentihus autem stultitiam; ipsis au- 
tem vocatis^ Judeeis et Greeds^ Christum Dei virtutem, et Dei 
sapientiam^* 

“ Well chosen,” said Bossuet; “ it is only a St. Paul who can 
write those things. Go on.” 

f “ If the preacher could ever, with apparent reason, blush for 
his ministry, would it not be on this day, — when he beholds 
himself obliged to publish the astonishing humiliations of the 
God whom he proclaims, — the outrages which he has received, 
the weaknesses which he has felt, his languor, his suffering, his 
passion, his death ? Nevertheless, said the great Apostle, in 
spite of the shame of the cross, I will never blush for the gos- 
pel of Christ, and the reason which he gives for it,” — hut it is 
not necessary for us to read all this fii*st part. I will pass on 
to the last pages. It is with those that we have to do,” he added, 
with a profound sigh. 

“ Courage ! God will aid you.” 

“ He has already begun to do so, since you are here. — Ah ! 
I hear some one coming up ; I had forgotten. It is doubtless — ” 

“ What a contretemps !” 

“ There is, however, no way — 

And he opened the door. 

“ For the Jews require a sign, and the Greeks seek after wisdom ; 
but we preach Christ crucified, unto the Jews a stumbling-block, and unto 
the Greeks foolishness ; but unto them which are called, both Jews and 
Greeks, Christ the power of God, and the wisdom of God.” 1 Corinthi- 
ans i. 22, 23, 24 f Literal. 


CHAPTER XI. 


An RIVAL OF CLAUDE. MUTUAL SURPRISE AND EMBARRASSMENT. — ARRIVAL OF 

THE MESSRS. FENELON. NEW SURPRISE. JANSENIST AND PROTESTANT. 

SPIRIT IN WHICH SERMONS ARE COMMONLY HEARD AND CRITICIZED. CLAUDE’s 

STRICTURES ON COURT PREACHERS. BOURDALOUE IN GREAT DISTRESS. 

“ The distinguished talents, extended information, and strong 
and pleasing logic of Claude, were accomjDanied by still more 
estimable qualities ; with purity of morals, ease of conversation, 
and all those gentle and amiable traits of character, which it is 
always pleasing to discover in men of superior merit.” 

To these words of the Cardinal du Bausset"^ we may add the 
no less explicit testimony which Bossuet himself was pleased to 
tender to the meritorious qualities of his illustrious antagonist. 
It is true, that the impartiality of the Roman Catholic histo- 
rians towards Claude, is in fact nothing more than partiality to- 
wards Bossuet ; nothing is easier than to be just, when some- 
thing is to be gained by it afterwards, and to acknowledge how 
formidable an enemy is, xvhen one is decided to declare him 
to have been vanquished. But, Avhatever was the object of 
these praises, they do not the less suffice to confirm those xvhich 
the reformed Churches of France, Switzerland, Holland and 
England, xvere unanimous in giving to the eloquent and pious 
minister of Charenton. 

Claude was of middling height, but he shared with many 
* 3Iemoirs of Bossuet. Book V. 


134 


THE PREACHER 


distinguished personages of the time, the king included, the 
advantage of appearing much taller than he really was. This 
curious peculiarity of the iVth century, was doubtless not in- 
dependent of the costume. The high and majestic peruke of 
the men, the slender waists of the women’s dresses, and tire 
high heels which both wore, had probably much to do with it ; 
but it cannot be denied, that it was also the effect, in part, 
of the physiognomies. Look at the portraits of this time ; 
would you not say they were cousins of Louis XIV. ? Some 
men, however, Bossuet among others, recall the ruder and some- 
what Spanish type of the time of Louis XIII. and Corneille. 
Claude also belonged to this latter class. His features had 
not the grand and Bourhonian regularity which the sight of the 
king seemed to impress upon all the visages of the court. A 
child of the south, he had in his eyes and in his gestures some- 
thing more spirited ; but as this vivacity neither injured the pre- 
cision of his language, nor the nobleness of his movements, it 
served only to augment the impression produced by his presence. 
Unfortunately his voice did not prepossess in favor of his words. 
It was dry and somewhat harsh ; and to this was added a de- 
cided southern accent. On this account, it had been jocosely 
said, at the time of his election at Charenton, that all voices 
were in his favor, save his own. 

Scarcely had he crossed the threshold of Bourdaloue’s cham- 
ber, before he perceived Bossuet approaching him. He stopped. 
It was neither repulsion nor dread, but he could not be other- 
wise than profoundly surprised, that Bourdaloue had thought fit 
to admit a third person, and that that person should be Bossuet. 

An explanation was necessary ; it was brief. 

“I have just arrived,” said Bossuet, “quite accidentally. Al- 
low me to retire — 

“ Why, sir, why ? If it is accident which brings you, there 


AND THE KING. 


135 


is no longer any reason why your presence .should surprise me. 
And who knows, besides, if this accident may not be Providence ? 
As for myself, I confess that I am very happy to meet, in a fra- 
ternal interview, a man whom I have as yet, only encountered 
on the field of battle. — And you, sir,” he continued, addressing 
himself to Bourdaloue, “ pardon me my first surprise. It was an 
insult to your delicacy — ” 

“ Do not speak of it ; appearances were against me.” 

They took seats ; but the conversation was not flowing. 

Every one has remarked that an interview which commences 
badly, is some time before taking a happy turn ; it is in vain 
that the speakers are convinced that no one has been in fault ; it 
requires some moments for the first impression to wear oft'. Add 
to this, that Bossuet was not at ease. In spite of Claude’s as- 
surances, he felt himself de trop^ and regretted not having per- 
sisted in leaving. — Bourdaloue, on his part, made vain efforts to 
think of something else besides his sermon, and the minutes 
which were flying, and the precious time which he was forced to 
lose, and for what ? To answer yes or no to insignificant obser- 
vations, — for such a reception was little calculated to put Claude 
at his ease, and permit him to enter upon some subject which 
was worth talking of. A conversation upon rain and sunshine, 
is always insipid enough, but when the speakers are people of 
merit, it is still sadder and still more insipid. One would just 
as willingly see them embroider, or string pearls. 

Dissatisfied with himself and with them, Claude was about to 
retire after a visit of a quarter of an hour, when Messieurs de Fen- 
elon were announced. 

We have already seen that the latter had agreed to visit Bour- 
daloue on this evening. The marquis looked forward to it with 
much pleasure ; thus, though his nephew had expressed to him 


136 


THE PREACHER 


the fear that their visit might disturb the Father, on account of 
his next day’s sermon, he insisted upon going. 

Salutations, compliments, etc. All presentations are alike. 

But M. de Fenelon was hardly seated, before his eye fell upon 
Claude, accidentally placed opposite to him, and he began to ex- 
amine him with the air of a man striving to recall something. 
Bourdaloue had presented Claude to him, according to custom ; 
but, whether he had not distinguished the name, or whether he 
had not listened to it, he had bowed without a reply, and with- 
out troubling himself to hear better. So he looked, and looked 
again, — and when conversation began, he seemed to regret the 
moments which politeness forced him to withdraw his gaze. At 
length, Claude having spoken a few words, this voice appeared 
to strike him. 

“ But — ” he said, “ excuse me. — It is probable that I am mis- 
taken. However — Would Monsieur be — 

He did not venture to continue. He felt, that if he were mis- 
taken, the object of his blunder might be little flattered by it. 
And then Claude visiting Bourdaloue ! Claude making a third 
with Bossuet ! — It was a dream. 

“ I think that Monsieur is not mistaken,” said the minister. 

“ It is then you, who — at Charenton — ” 

He did not yet venture to speak out the word, the thing ap- 
peared to him so improbable. 

“ But yes — ” said Claude. 

“ Well,” cried the marquis, looking alternately at Bourdaloue 
and at him, “ when I entered the house of the first preacher of 
the age this evening, I did not look forward to meeting there, 
the second also !” 

The first, the second — and Bossuet ? It may be remembered 
that we have already said what the opinion of tlie public was in 
regard to him. Li ceasing to count him among the preachers, 


AND THE KING. 


137 


it was tliouglit that an honor was done him. No one could be 
further from wishing in the least to underrate him, than M. de 
Fenelon. 

The future bishop of Meaux could not, however, conceal a 
slight movement of surprise. 

“You have heard M. Claude preach !” 

And the tone in which these words were spoken, indicated a 
mingling of various feelings. First, astonishment. He knew 
that Claude was no mean preacher ; but he had never imagined 
that a Catholic, a connoisseur, could give him thus the first rank 
after Bourdaloue. It was wounded vanity ; could he entirely re- 
sign, even for a position reputed higher, his former renown as an 
orator ? Could he sincerely subscribe to the honor, which it was 
imagined was paid him in leaving him out ? So much for his 
feelings as a man ; — but there were also those of the bishop. It 
was, as may be easily understood, a very natural displeasure, 
that felt by a zealous Catholic, in learning that one of the most 
distinguished men of his church, had entered a heretic place of 
worship, and had not only entered, but been gratified there. The 
Jansenists were good Catholics, judging, at least, by the ve- 
hemence of their attacks against the Protestants ; but a party 
may be interested in exaggerating the distance which separates 
it from a certain other party,^ and in this case, the animosity 
displayed, proves more affinity than repulsion. Among the liun- 
dred and one propositions condemned in 1713, in the Bull TJni- 
genitus^ there is more than half to which Calvin might have 
subscribed. The more Jansenism resembled the Beformation in 

* It is on this account, that the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and 
the persecutions against the Jansenists themselves, so closely followed the 
debates of 1682, when the Pope had been so insulted. Loudly accused 
by Rome, of having destroyed, or wishing to destroy Catholic unity, Louis 
XIV. found it very convenient to renew it at the expense of the Protes- 
tants and Port-Royal. 


12 * 


138 


THE PREACHER 


some points, (and tliese points were by no means the most un- 
important,'^) the more important it was considered for it to dis- 
tinguish itself from the Reformation as a whole ; but these tac- 
ticsf escaped the observation of none, and could only serve to 
excite the distrust of the strict Catholics. Add to this, that the 
Jansenists gave themselves airs of independence little in accord 
with the respect which they professed to entertain for the de- 
cisions of the church. If they supported Catholicism, it was 
rather as a doctrine of their own choice, than as the re- 
ceived religion, imposed authoritatively, and accepted with sub- 
mission. Free examination of the Scriptures existed in fact 
among them. They were Catholics at Port-Royal, as one was 
Calvinist at Geneva. They were then Protestants with the ex- 
ception of their doctrines ; and the presence of the marquis in the 
place of worship at Charenton, — even if he had entered it but 
once, could not be an isolated . and unimportant fact in the eyes 
of Bossuet. 

“ Have I heard M. Claude !” replied M. de Fenelon ; “ a whole 
Lent—” 

“ A Lent !” said the minister laughing. “ I did not think that 
I had ever preached Lent sermons — ” 

“ An old habit,” resumed the marquis ; “ I meant to say all 
the Sundays of a Lent. It happened thus, gentlemen. It was 
two years ago ; I was passing the winter at Paris. My friend 
the Duke de la ForceJ; heard me lamenting one day, that there 

* “ It is useful and necessary, at all times, in all places, for all sorts of 
persons, to shidy the Scriptures .” — LXXlXth Condemned Proposition. 
The reformers themselves, did not say more than that. 

\ Tactics which, it must he confessed, were sincere ; there was an unaf- 
fected horror, at the same time, with this secret affinity. The Abbe de 
Saint-Cyran never opened a heretic book without previously exorcising 
It by making a sign of the cross. 

X Son of him who almost miraculously escaped from death, on Saint 
Bartholomew’s day. 


ANl^ THE KING. 


139 


was not a preacher in the whole city who pleased me. It is well 
understood that you were not there, Monsieur Bourdaloue. You 
will tell me that such complaints are wrong, and that all preach- 
ers are good to those only who go in the- hope of improvement. 
I know it well ; but what was to be done ? If I have sinned in 
going to hear M. Claude, it is more your fault than mine ; why 
did you spoil me the year before, so completely as to render all 
those insupportable to me who were not equal to you.'^ ‘ Come 
to Charenton,’ said the Duke de la Force. Now you must know 
that it was perhaps the twentieth time he had spoken to me of 
M. Claude. A short time befoi’e, I had taken him to Notre 
Dame to hear Father Bourdaloue, as my only answer. To my 
great surprise, for he is an honest man and of infallible good 
taste, he had not appeared discomfited. ‘ It is fine,’ he had said 
to me, ‘ it is good, very good, but come to Charenton.’ I be- 
lieved him to be jeering me. Finally, as I have said, one day 
when I complained of our preachers, he took me at my word 
and conducted me to hear his. What more shall I say ? I went 
back every Sunday, and I do not think I was any the woi-se for 
it at Easter.” 

Claude was radiant. We will not say that pride had nothing 
to do with it ; and why should we wish to have this believed ? 
Henry IV. said truly, that none but a coward would boast of 
never having been afraid ; and with still more reason might it 
be asserted, that it is only a very proud person who could ven- 
ture to say he had no pride. But Claude was accustomed to 
praises, and M. de Fenelon was not the first Catholic from whom 

* “ He is an extraordinary man. If you had one ; heard him, you would 
be disgusted with all others.” “ I shall take care then, not to go and 
hear him, for I would not wish one preacher to Jisgust me with all 
others ; on the contrary, I seek for a man who shall inspire me with such 
a love and respect for the word of God, that I should be but the more 
disposed to hear it everywhere.”— Fenelon. Pulpit Eloquence. 


140 


THE PREACHER 


he had received them. So that which most gratified him, was 
Dot the being praised in itself, but being so by so grave and 
pious a man, for it may be supposed that the marquis was known 
to him by rejDutation ; it was the thought, that, ignorant that this 
man was among his audience, he had preached five or six times 
in succession, without saying anything to displease him, without 
speaking as a Protestant or a Catholic, without, in short, being 
anything else but Christian, in the purest, most elevated sense of 
the wori. This was what he was proud of, more than anything 
else ; if we must call it pride, let us at least confess that no pride 
could be more legitimate or more Christian. 

“ Ah ! sir,” he cried, seizing the hand of the marquis, “ in 
such a moment as this, I feel myself repaid with interest, for 
whole years of labor and disappointment ! When* I am informed 
that I have pleased some one, I tremble but when I hear that 
I have done some good — ” 

“ That is a happiness which you must often have.” 

“ Much less often than you would think — ” 

“Alas!” said Bourdaloue, “I suppose that all churches are 
alike in this respect. There are not twenty hearers in a thou- 
sand, who know exactly what they come for, when they come to 
church ; the sermon is neither really listened too nor really un- 
derstood, save by those who could the best do without it. If 
they have been curious to hear it, and if they feel pleasure in 
coming from their homes to the church, they fancy that they live 
in a proper frame of mind ; because they love the preacher, they 
think that they love sufficiently the religion which he preaches.” 

* “ I hear many who speak of your sermons ; the odor of your aromat- 
ics exhales itself even to me ; but after so mauy messengers who report 
to me every day, that your bed is adorned with flowers, — that your spring 
is fresh and smiling, — I shall expect others, who shall bring me news of 
the summer and the autumn, of the harvest and the vintage — F rancois dp 
Sa .es. Letter to Le Camus. 


AND THE KINO. 


141 


“This deception,” added Claude, “is only one of the thousand 
ru les of pride and obduracy. There is calculation in it, you may 
be certain ; instinctive calculation, it is true, but not the less real 
for that. All those who hear you, know very well, in reality, 
that a sermon is meant to be profited by ; — but the greater part 
also, in reality, and without confessing it to themselves, care » ery 
little about profiting b}" it. So then, what happens ? If you 
preach badly, or only tolerably, they ease their consciences by 
criticizing you, for the consequence of this in their minds is, that 
there is no harm in not profiting by a poor sermon. If you 
preach well, they put themselves at ease by praising you ; and in 
order not to pay to God the tribute claimed by him, they hasten 
to pay to his minister that which costs the least, and binds them 
to nothing. See, they seem to say, see what enthusiasm 'I am 
still capable of feeling for a religious discourse, for a man who 
speaks to me of God and of my salvation. And content with 
feeling this enthusiasm, they stop there ; their conscience is sat- 
isfied. Therefore, when one of my audience comes to inform me 
that I have given him pleasure^ (for you know that is the expres- 
sion adopted) ; there is another, I say to myself, for whom my 
sermon is lost.” 

“ I had the folly, one day,” said M. de Fenelon, “to pay this 
compliment to Father Seraphin, former preacher to the king. 
He replied ; ‘ So much the worse,’ and turned his back to me.” 

“ He might have been more charitable.” 

“ Ah ! you do not know Father Seraphin. He is a man who 
doe not trifle. Ask my nephew — ” 

“An adventure?” 

“ Yes,” said the nephew, “ and odd enough.” 

“ May we hear it?” 

' “ Certainly. One day, then. Father Seraphin was preaching 
in the king’s chapel. In the very midst of his discourse, 


142 


THE PREACHER 


‘ Awaken,’ e cried in a voice of thunder, ‘ awaken that abhe 
who is asleep, and who is only here to pay his court to the king!’ 
The sleeping abhe was myself."^ What could I do ? It was 
two o’clock in the afternoon, in the month of August ; then the 
sermon of the good father, — in short, I was asleep. However, 
he would have done better to pass it over, for everybody began 
to laugh ; the king nearly suffocated in order to refrain from do- 
ing so, and the orator was at his wit’s end. I made my excuses 
to him afterwards, and I owe them to you also, gentlemen,” con- 
tinued the Abbe de Fenelon, “ for having interrupted you with 
my little story.” 

“ There is good in him, however, this Father Seraphin,” said 
the Marquis, casting a side look at Bossuet, which the latter very 
well understood ; “ he goes straight on his way ; he strikes where 
God tells him to strike. I have many a time seen the courtiem 
quite pale, at the boldness which he allowed himself before the 
king.” 

“ He has his abrupt way of speaking,” said Bossuet, with a 
little vexation. “No offence is taken at his boldness, but neither 
is any great attention paid to it. We do not perceive that his 
great shouts, have any better reformed the court, than the calmer, 
or if you will, the more timid eloquence of those who have pre- 
ceded or followed him in the royal chapel. Does not Saint 
Chrysostom say, apropos to this,f that before working the iron^ 
you must begin by softening it ? 

“ Yes ; but that is no reason why, under pretence of softening 
it, you may dispense with working it.” 

It is certain, that people who are always scolding, finish by 
becoming for us, nothing more than a species of scolding ma- 
chines, whose movements and noise no longer make the slightest 
impression on us. It is a great pity that a preacher should 
* Historical. f Commentary on the book of Acts. 


AND THE KING. 


143 


ever be thus ; but the exaggeration of some, is no excuse for the 
weakness of others. Bossuet was without doubt convinced of 
^this ; it may be perceived from his first conversations with the 
marquis. But again called to account by the austere Jansenist, 
he would at least have liked to be able to tell him what he 
had done since their last interview ; certain of having merited 
his approbation, he was piqued at still receiving nothing but 
reproaches. From thence proceeded the .’rritation which was 
perceptible in his words. 

Claude did not appear to pay attention to it ; besides, suspect- 
ing nothing, perhaps he did not perceive it. Returning, then, to 
the first question : “You speak of reforming the court,” he said ; 
“ but so long as the courtiers alone are attacked, and the vices 
of a sovereign are held as sacred as his person, nothing can be 
hoped for ; victory can scarcely be seriously wished for, while the 
rampart is left unattacked, behind which it is known that the 
enemy takes refuge, and always will take refuge. And would 
to God, that it were confined to leaving the rampart undemolished ! 
But no ; each one brings his stone to it. The king never hears a 
sermon, on any subject whatever, without finding in it compli- 
ments to his piety, his faith, and to his virtues in general. So 
much for the Christian qualities. As for those of the man, it 
is still worse ; there are no expressions so strong, nor images so 
bold, nor even any play of words so fantastic, that certain ora- 
tors have not fancied themselves doing wonders in employing 
them in his praise. Where is any thing to be found compa- 
rable to this phrase in a discourse delivered five years ago 
‘At length the great, invincible, and magnanimous Louis, to 
whom the ancients would have given a thousand hearts^ they 

* The funeral oration of the Duchess of Orleans, in 1610, by Mascaron. 
In this passage, he alludes to the stupor around the dying bed of the 
young princess, produced by the spectacle of her agony. 


144 


THE PREACHER 


wlio multiplied the heart in heroes, according to the number 
of their great qualities, — feels himself without heart at this spec- 
tacle !’ It is true that the king did not hear this discourse ; but 
lie read it, and it was known that he would read it. And what 
an enormous collection of things of this kind it must be,^ which 
he has been made, not to read, but to hear with his own ears, in 
his chapel, before his court ! In doctrinal sermons, it is consid- 
ered obligatory to tell him that he already knows better than 
any one, that which is about to be treated of before him ; he is 
almost asked for pardon to this Word of life, which has the 
audacity to address itself to him just as to others. In sermons 
on morals, what seems to be feared beyond every thing, is, not 
that he may be deaf to the lessons to be given him, but, on 
the contrary, that he may possibly take to himself some par- 
ticle of the remonstrances addressed to the audience in general. 
The more severe the sermon, the more pains is taken to change 
the tone of it, as soon as it bears upon the king ; the more, 
consequently, he is authorized to conclude that he has nothing 
to do with this severity. Why, for instance, is he so sensible 
to the praises of M. Despreaux ? It is because M. Despreaux 
attacks every one excepting him.f Here is what is done in his 

* Tills collection went on increasing forty years longer ! 
f Add also, that Boileau well knew how to take advantage of this cir- 
cumstance: see these lines in his 1st Epistle (1669): 

“ On dira quelque jour — 

Boleau, qui, dans ses vers pleius de sincerite, 

Jadis a tout son si^cle h dit la verite, 

Qui mit a tout blamer son etude et sa gloire, 

A pourtant de ee roi parle eomme I’histoire ” 

“ Some day it will be said 

That Boileau, in his strains, rude ever, but sincere. 

Who to his century has spoken harshest truths. 

Who studied hut to blame , — and proudly censured all,— 

Has spoken of this king with history’s honest voice.” 


AND THE KING. 


145 


chapel. One would fancy one saw those physicians become 
cooks, of whom Socrates speaks in one of Plato’s dialogues, 
who offer ragouts in place of remedies. But here, the ragouts 
are not for every body. On the contrary, there is an affectation 
of preparing the blackest and most bitter medicines, — and as 
soon as the king opens his mouth ; ‘ Stay ! Sire, stay ! This 
is for you.’ And quickly a little nectar. Alas ! Is not every 
man, by nature, active enough in jDrocuring for himself this fatal 
nectar of pride ? Must he receive it, besides, from the very per- 
sons whose sole business it should be to snatch the cup from 
his hands ? And while, everywhere else, the constant object of 
sacred logic is to shut upon the audience all the gates by which 
they might be able to escape, — at Versailles, the ne plus ultra 
of eloquence is to arrange at the side of each of them a wicket- 
gate for the king. But excuse me, gentlemen, — I am very bold. 
Believe me — ” 

Bourdaloue appeared, in truth, troubled enough. He Avas, 
indeed, upon the whole, one of those Avho had best sustained 
the dignity of an evangelical ministry before the king but he 
could not conceal from himself, that he had often yielded to the 
torrent. Furthermore, a particular circumstance, as we shall 
soon see, contributed to the evident impression which Claude’s 
remarks had made upon him. 

Neither Avas Bossuet at his ease. Like Bourdaloue, Avithout 
having ever gone as far as many had, he did not feel himself 

* “ Father Bourdaloue preached a sermon on Lady-day Avhieh trans- 
ported everybody. It Avas poAverful enough to make courtiers tremble. 
Never did an evangelical preacher preach Christian truths so plainly and 
benevolently. It Avas his object to show, that all power should be subject 
to law, — ^witness the example of our Lord who was presented it the 
temple. Indeed, it Avas carried to the highest point of perfection, and 
certain portions were applied as St. Paul himself would have applied 
them.” — Madame de Sevigne. Letter of February 5th, 16l4. 

1'3 


146 


THE PREACHER 


to be irreproacliable. His conscience once awakened, ever tbe 
thought of the courage he had showed this very day, could not 
banish the recollection of the eulogies scattered abundantly 
throughout his sermons, in his funeral orations, in his books, 
— eulogies so much the more culpable, because the authority 
of his name, and the eloquent rudeness of his speech, gave them 
an infinite prize in the monarch’s eyes. “ Since this great man 
was obliged to flatter,” says a critic,f “ I am very glad that he 
has generally done it with so little art, that we may be allowed 
to think that adulation was not natural to his bold and vigor- 
ous genius.” Sad consolation ! As if flattery without art were 
not the most dangerous ! Ten lines of his were worth more, 
and consequently did more harm, than the whole discourse of 
a preacher who was manifestly a courtier ; thus he had contrib- 
uted more than any other, to corrupt the heart of Louis XIV. 

Accordingly, when Claude ceased, expressing the fear that he 
had spoken too frankly, Bossuet replied nothing, and I’emained 
motionless ; but Bourdaloue said, 

“Why should I be ofiended? K I have been wrong, the 
best thing I can do is to confess it. Go on.” 

Claude hesitated. He seemed to have something delicate 
and painful to add. 

“ Make use of your permission !” said the marquis. “ Great 
orators are like kings ; they so rarely hear themselves judged with 
frankness, that they ought to be very happy when such an occa- 
sion presents itself.” 

“ Very well !” said Claude, “ I shall finish. I have heard you 
preach. Monsieur Bourdaloue — 

“Ah!-” 

“ And you perhaps remember an anonymous letter — ” 

“ It was from you !” he exclaimed with extreme eagerness. 

* ViNET. Note on the funeral oration of the Duchess of Orleans. 


AND THE KING. 


147 


“ Yes. — I had heard you; but once, it is true, and this once 
was sufficient to confirm the opinion I had of your talents and 
your enlightenment. But it cut me to the heart, to hear such a 
discourse terminated by the eulogium, what do I call it ! by the 
apotheosis of a man in whom your ministry commanded you to 
see only a man and a sinner. It was on this account that I took 
the liberty of writing to you. I described to you my astonish- 
ment, my grief. I implored you to renounce these court man- 
ners, more unworthy of you than of any other. I even ventured 
to quote to you some of your phrases, for they had too deeply 
distressed me, not to have impressed themselves on my memory ; 
and without appeal to any other beside yourself, I strove to show 
you how strong was the contradiction between them and the 
very principles which you had so strongly and so wisely laid 
down in the body of the discourse. Did you heed what I said ? 
I know not. I addressed myself to your conscience ; it was not 
for me to inquire what the answer was — ” 

Bourdaloue’s agitation had been still increasing. During 
these last words, he had sometimes bowed down his head, some- 
times raised it again, with a strange expression of sadness and 
anguish. Yet he had not the air of being offended at the minis- 
ter’s words ; his movements were not those of a man who is 
growing impatient and anxious to justify himself. There was 
evidently a great battle going on within him, not against Claude, 
but against himself. Without understanding how he could be 
the occasion of such extreme distress, Claude yet repented having 
yielded to the invitation of the marquis, and was about to stop, 
confused, when Bourdaloue, suddenly covering his face with both 
hands,threw himself back on his seat, crying, “ My God ! my God !” 

The silence which followed was long ; astonishment was at its 
height. It seemed as if none of the company dared to move. 
At length Claude rose, and going up to him said ; 


148 


THE PREACHER 


“ Dear brother — 

But Bourdaloue did not allow him time to continue. He rose 
also, and snatching from a table, the sermon of which Claude’s 
arrival had interrupted the reading, he violently tore out the last 
two leaves, and threw them, all crumpled, at the feet of the as- 
tonished minister. 

Bossuet alone, of all those present, was aware of the contents 
of this manuscript; thus he alone could guess the reason of so 
sudden and brusque an action. 

“ What is this paper ?” asked Claude. 

“ My sermon for to-morrow.” 

At these words Claude thought that he also had made a dis- 
covery. He was on the way to an understanding. He under- 
stood that there must be in this discourse some eulogies of the 
kind which he had condemned, and that the author, seized with 
a sudden remorse, had felt that he must do with them what it 
was his duty to do. But why only two leaves ? Claude picked 
them up, — unfolded them, — and let them fall at his feet again. 

There were not only praises in them ; but it was literally, — 
word for word, the scandalous panegyric about which he had 
written to Bourdaloue. 

This requires explanation. 

One day when the eloquent Jesuit had preached before the 
king, Louis XIV. thought that he recognized in his discourse 
some passages which he had heard before. Upon inquiring, he 
found that this was true ; but he said, that after all, he would 
rather hear Father Bourdaloue’s old sermons, than any body 
else’s new ones. 

Emboldened by this praise, Bourdaloue scrupled not to recur 
from time to time to sermons already preached, either to preach 
them over again, or to make use of some passages only. This 
year, his sermon for Good-Friday was a quite recent composition 


AND THE KING. 


149 


but, whether he had wanted time, or whether he had not felt in 
the vein, he had decided to repeat an old peroration. And the 
more praises this should contain, the more certain it was that 
the king would not complain of having already heard it. 

And now, how was this scene to terminate ? It was no longer 
Bossuet only, who felt himself de-trop ; the others also began 
earnestly to wish themselves away, and Bourdaloue, in the 
midst of his distress, was perhaps the least embarrassed of any. 

A happy accident relieved them all. A servant appeared ; the 
king sent for Bossuet. 

Bossuet rising, the others hastened to follow his example and 
take leave. 

“ Monsieur,” said the marquis, “ I am enchanted — 

“ Monsieur,” said the father, “ I am delighted — ” 

“ To have had the honor to see you,” added one. 

“ To have had the honor to receive you,” added the other. 
Alas ! they were neither of them enchanted or delighted^ save at 
o le thing, — the one to go away, and the other to remain alone. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THB LIGHT IN WHICH PRE.VCHERS WERE REGARDED. — CHARACTER OF LOUIS 
XIV. INFLUENCE WITH THE POPE, — AND WITH THE GALLICAN CHURCH. 

A LITTLE fact in Tallemant’s memoirs, appears to us to contain 
a curious enough revelation in regard to the manner in which 
preaching was generally regarded about the middle of the sev- 
enteentli century. 

It is in the story of Le Maistre.^ “ He intended setting to 
work to preach,” says the author, “ but he became religious by 
the way, and gave it up.” 

Exactly as if it should be said, “ He intended at first to be- 
come a comedian, but seeing that he could not do this without 
being lost, he changed his mind.” 

The preacher was at that time but a sort of comedian ; let us 
however, observe, that this singular idea had not then exactly 
the same meaning which would be attached to it at the present 
day. In the first place, it was only applied to preachers by pro- 
fession, those who are called at the present time in France, and 
improperly enough, missionaries; an ecclesiastic who had a 
stationary post, was not considered as belonging to the class of 
preachers, properly speaking. On the other hand, the word 
comedian, which we have used, does not imply that preachers 
were regarded in general as going against their conscience, and 
teaching things which they themselves did not believe ; and yet 

* Sacy, of Port-Royal, translator of the Bible. Sacy or Saci^ is a 
pseudonym, anagram of Isaac, his first name. 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


151 


they were very far fi-om being regarded as actually following a 
vocation, and having sought above everything, the advantage of 
religion and )f the church. Preaching was a trade ; a trade, 
doubtless, frcni which honesty and zeal were no more excluded 
than from any other, but a trade, notwithstanding. The profes- 
sion of preacher was not only distinct from that of priest, it was 
considered, in some degree, as without the pale of piety, as in- 
compatible with piety, so to speak, as soon as the latter had ac- 
quired a certain depth “ He became religious by the way^ and ” 
— went to preaching, probably ? No; “Ae gave up 'preaching T 

If then, it was not entirely a comedy, neither was it a perfectly 
serious thing. It was with preaching as with poetry ; it was 
looked upon as an art, and an art only. It was the art of ser- 
monizing, just as poetry was the art of versifying ; it was not 
yet comprehended that it could be or ought to be otherwise. 
Hence the criticisms and even pleasantries which society per- 
mitted itself to put forth against preachers, without seeming to 
imagine that religion could suffer from it. In our day, the 
boldest infidelity would scarcely venture upon that which Boi- 
leau dared to say against Cotin, without ceasing to be a re- 
ligious man, and to be regarded generally as such. It was con- 
sidered no more harm to deride a bad preacher, than to laugh at 
a bad poet. 

Poetry perfected itself, but without ceasing to be an art ; it be- 
came mo>e regular, without advancing in truth ; more noble, 
without having more soul; more profound, without being more. 

Now, in spite of appearances to the contrary, we do not hesi- 
tate to say that it was the same with preaching. The business 
was ennobled, but it remained a business ; the sermons became 
more regular, as well as more Christian” but they did not cease 
to be composed, preached and criticised rather as literary pro 
ductions, than as discourses for edification. 


152 


THE PREACHER 


Whose fault was this, — that of the preacher or of the public ? 
— A delicate question, upon which much might be said, but 
which we like better to i afer to the consciences of both ; for it is 
not so peculiar to the seventeenth century, that we are able to 
regard it as a simple matter of history. 

However this may be, — when preaching had once entered the 
dominion of literature, and consequently had left that higher 
sphere to which it belonged from its nature and its object, it found 
itself subjected, like everything else, to the influence of the 
man who was destined to impress so profoundly upon all the 
productions of the century, the signet of his character and his 
manners. Whether from his great ability or his great good for- 
tune, Louis XIV. absorbed everything ; and in the same manner 
as all the poets came at last to glory in being poets only by him 
and for him, — so there was at length no orator, — that is to say, 
no preacher, since the pulpit alone was open to eloquence, — who 
did not stoop beneath the same dominion, and gladly wear its 
livery. 

And this, it may be said by the way, is one of the best proofs 
that Louis XIV. was no common man. Let the legitimacy and 
morality of this influence be discussed at pleasure ; let all the 
bases upon which it i-ested, be made to totter one after the other, 
(and we acknowledge that it can be done,) yet the fact will still 
remain, that this influence was immense, and that it lasted fifty 
years. That circumstances prepared the way for it, is undenia- 
ble; that it was in some measure a homage to Louis XIV. 
himself, is also true ; but, even if he had had nothing to do in 
order to acquire it, still it was a great deal to preserve it, and to 
preserve it for half a century. Put a Louis XIII. or a Louis 
XVI. in his place, and see if it would have lasted. 

At the death of Louis XIV., there was such a burst of con- 
tempt and sarcasm against his flatterers, that for a moment it 


AND THE KING. 


153 


miglit have beer believed that flattery was interred with bim ; 
but under Louis XV. it revived with more eagerness, more mean- 
ness than ever, and it was so much tbe baser, because it shame- 
lessly attired itself in the most beautiful garb of candor and phi- 
losophy. “ Our king is superior to glory itself,” wrote Dudes in 
1'752. “ Feeling, worthy and capable of friendship, at once king 

and citizen, be loves bis subjects as much as be is loved by them.” 

Superior to glory itself^ — -feeling^ hing^ and citizen ^ — all the po- 
litico-sentimental phraseology of tbe epoch. Nothing is wanting in 
it, as can be perceived ; nothing except the truth ; for it is scarcely 
necessary to mention, that every one of these expressions is false, 
save perhaps the last, “ he loves his subjects as much as they love 
him ;” for as to the lv 2 tter of it, it was true ; between himself and 
them, a touching interchange of hatred and defiance began to 
establish itself. In truth, when one remembers what the flat- 
terers of Louis XV. could say and do, one feels no longer the 
power to attack those of Louis XIV. 

And, if it is permitted to the author of these reflections, to say 
once for all, what he thinks of this man, whose name recurs so 
often to the pen even of those who profess to despise him, — here 
it is. ^ 

And, in the first place, he does not like him. It can be seen 
from the preceding pages, and will be seen still more plainly in 
those which follow, whether he is inclined to prostrate himself 
before his memory. But, at the moment when he is most dis- 
posed to be severe, he stops, he reflects, he fears to be unjust;* 
Having already several times altered his opinion of Louis XIV., 
he does not wish to venture again, save in good earnest ; so much 

* “ I do not like men who set aside their country’s laws ; but I should 
find it difficult to believe that Caesar and Cromwell were little-mindec 
men. I do not like conquerors ; but no one can persuade me that Alex 
ander and Gengiskan, were commonplace men.” — Montesquieu. 


154 


THE PREACHER 


the more, because since he has seriously taken up the study of 
the seventeenth century, this prince has rather gained than lost 
in his esteem. As much interested as any one can be, in exe- 
crating the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, he is not one of 
those who fancy they have said everything in regard to one of 
the longest of reigns, in mentioning a deed of which the author 
was rather misled than cruel.'^ He has been led to sef urate the 
man from the king. The man, he likes less every day ; the king, 
he does not admire, much less like ; but, every day he learns “ to 
respect him.f If it be one of the characteristics of genius to 
take possession of his age, and personify it in himself, what foun- 
dation can we have for refusing to Louis XIV. this title ? It is 
precisely because this prince was neither a Bossuet, nor a Conde, 
nor a Bourdaloue, that we are unable to attribute to accident the 
empire which he had over these men. When it is to be proved 
that man is the chief of created beings, what is generally done ? 
The grandeur, ferocity and power of the animals which he has 
subdued, and whose master he is, are described. Well, if the 
obedience of animals stronger than myself, proves me to be a 
reasonable being, what does the obedience of men who surpass 

* One is confounded in seeing by how many people, and how many 
different kinds of people, Louis XIV. was deceived in this fatal affair ; de- 
ceived by some in regard to the disposition of the Protestants ; by others 
in regard to their number ; by some in respect to the pretended facility 
of conversions ; by others as to the extent of the severities exereised or 
to be exercised ; and lastly, by all in regard to the nature and limits of 
royal authority. It is painful to think, that Pelisson had more hand ir 
this than any one else, for it was he who laid before the king the inter- 
minable lists of pretended eonversions, leading him thus gradually to be- 
lieve that there were no more, or but few more Protestants in his 
kingdom. But Pelisson was an apostate Protestant. 

f “ He is not one of the greatest men, but certainly one of the greatest 
kings that ever existed.” — Voltaire. Supplement to the “ Age of Louis 

Air.” 


AND THE KING. 


155 


me in talent, in learning in a thousand things, — what does it 
prove, if not that tliere is one thing, at least, in which I have no 
equal? This thing, in Louis XIV., was the art of reigning. 
“ He is the most kingly of all kings,” wrote Leibnitz.^ “ His 
suitable province was to be a king,” said also Duclos, more than 
thirty years after his death.f He was then neitlier a great king 
in reality, since true greatness possesses qualities of which he 
was destitute ; much less a good king, and he cared very little to 
be this ; he was a king^ in all the extent and force of the appel- 
lation, — such a king as his father had not been, as his successors 
were not to be, — a king whose like we scarcely find two or three 
times in all the world’s history, — where there is nevertheless no 
lack of those men who are called kings. 

There are then no more such kings as he; there will never be 
any more such, in all probability. Shall we say so much the 
better, or so much the worse ? The question appears strange in 
the middle of the nineteenth century ; and nevertheless, before 
dismissing it with a shrug, let it be looked at with some atten- 
tion, and it will not be thought quite so strange. If it were 
purely and simply the question of a choice between liberty ana 
despotism, it could be quickly decided; but with the absolutism, 
whose fall no reasonable man can lament at the present day, 
with a system which is regretted by none, have disappeared hab- 
its and principles, which it may be permitted to regret, because 
their absence is more to be lamented every day. There was then 
too much obedience ; now, there is none. Kings were then con- 
sidered as gods ; now, they are scarcely regarded as men. The 

* Letter to Bossuet. This expression had already been employed by 
Pelisson. 

f Discourse upon his reception into the Academy, in 1747. Duclos is 
one of the authors who has most closely studied, and most correctly judged 
Lcuis XIV. ; and on this account we must consider his flatteries of Louis 
XV. doubly inexcusable. 


156 


THE PREACHER 


governed have no longer faith in their rulers; rulers have no 
longer faith in their mission. All that was then adored, is now 
burned ; everything that despotism burned, is now adored ; and 
in the midst of this complete change among those things which 
are burnt, are to be found things eternally to be revered ; among 
those which are adored, are to be found many which despotism 
was perfectly right in burning. 

To return to our subject, why should we be astonished that 
Louis XIV. had so thoroughly subjected preaching and preach- 
ers, when we see what was his power over religion itself? We 
do not mean to speak now of the altogether practical influence 
which he exercised by his example in becoming a devotee. Faith^ 
also, up to a certain point, was under his jurisdiction. During 
the debates of a convention where forty of the bishops were of 
his opinion, and nine of a contrary opinion, he one day com- 
plained bitterly that these nine, in spite of his orders, refused 
to adhere to the decision of the forty ; he would give anything, 
he said, to see them unanimous. “ But !” said the Duchess de 
Bourbon, “ why do you not rather order the forty to agree with 
the opinion of the nine.” She was right.* But does that sig- 
nify that these forty would have been conscious of baseness in 
yielding ? No ; at least we are not forced to think so. But, as 
the opinion of the king had already, to judge from appearances, 
had a great influence upon theirs, it was not calumniating them 
to suppose that it would be of sufiicient weight to make them 
unhesitatingly change it. “ What would you have done,” he 
said to Bossuet, in 1700, “if I had decided for Monsieur de 

* lu 1764, Benedict XIV. told the Abb4 de Guasco confidentially, tliat 
he was in possession of a secret letter from Louis XIV. to Clement XL, 
in which, in 1714, the king had offered to make his clergy retract their 
declaration of 1682. See a letter from Montesquieu to the Abbe de Gu- 
asco. (3d of Nov. 1754,) 


AND THE KING. 


157 


Cainbray ? “Sire,” replied the Bishop of Meaiix, “ I would have 
clamored twenty times as loud.” Yes, if his conscience had 
commanded him to do so ; hut this is precisely what we may be 
^./ermitted to doubt. If the king had happened to take a liking 
to Fenelon’s doctrines, would Bossuet have thought them so bad ? 
Would he have felt so strong a desire to attack them? It is 
scarcely probable ; if we have not the right to say that he would 
have lied to his conscience, we have at least the right to imagine, 
that if his conscience had been beguiled, it would have been less 
severe, and less exacting. Some one asking his opinion in regard 
to frequenting plays, he said, “There are great reasons against it, 
and great examples for it.”^ Here is the king’s example, even 
a bad example, weighed against reasons, even good reasons. 

In 1682 Louis XIV. had but to say the word, and France 
broke with the pope, — and but for the Protestants, to whom they 
did not wish to give the pleasure caused by this species of vic- 
tory, the separation would have been complete. Now I ask if 
the clergy who aided in this matter, were not under the influence 
of an actual fascination ? — this act, which would have rent the 
church, and renewed the very thing against which there had 
been most outcry at the time of the Reformation ! Was not 
Bossuet also fascinated ; he who prepared the way, who at the 
first sign from his master, would have become the Cranmer, and 
aided him to become the Henry VIII. of France ?f And lastly, 

* During the minority of Louis XIV., there was a comedy sometimes 
performed at the Louvre, and the young king was taken to see it. The 
Cure of Saint-Germain-l’auxerrois, had a memorial presented to the queen- 
mother, designed to prove that it was a mortal sin to be present at these 
representations. This memoidal being signed by seven doctors, the Abbe • 
de Beaumont, the king’s preceptor, procured one signed by twelve, and 
containing a contrary assertion. So they continued without scruple to 
do as before. 

f The storm once over, no efforts were spared to conceal how very 
nearly there had been a rupture, and above all, how easy it would have 

14 




158 


THE PREACHER 


was not the pope himself under the charm, — the pope, who re 
ceived from Versailles, almost word for word, the condemnation 
which he was to pronounce at Rome, in the quality of infallible 
judge* against the Archbishop of Cambray ? 

been ; but the memoirs of the time, those of d’Aguesseau in particular, 
leave no doubt upon the subject. Under any other than a Louis XIV. 
the assembly of 1682 would either never have taken place, or its authors 
would have been punished by excommunication ; but as the Roman 
church understood very well, that in ceasing to be one, she is no longer 
anything. Catholics of all opinions and all nations, have an immense in- 
terest in obliterating certain pages of her history. 

* Nothing ever written against Roman infallibility can be more curious 
than the whole history of the trial and condemnation of Fcnelon. He 
publishes a book ; the pope sees and speaks of it in the most flattering 
manner. A letter from the king arrives ; he requests that the book shall 
be pronounced a bad one. The pope elects a committee of ten doctors ; 
this committee meets sixty-four times. At length a vote is taken, and 
the judges are found to be five against five. According to the usual rule^ 
this is an acquittal ; the pope openly avows liis satisfaction. But the 
king insists. He demands, he exacts another examination of the book. 
A committee of cardinals devote thirty-six sittings to it, and finally de- 
cide against its author, but in such gentle terms, that the pontiff, also 
influenced by his personal sympathies, does not know how to express the 
condemnation, d'he cardinals propose to him to enact a series of canons, 
in which he*shall not touch upon the book, but in which he shall confine 
himself to establishing the true doctrines of the church on the contested 
points. This medium he likes ; the committee is deputed to prepare the 
- canons.* Thereupon arrives a thundering message from France, — almost 
a declaration of war. The pope groans, becomes angry — and — pro- 
nounces. Fen61on is clearly designated, — clearly condemned, — and tliis 
judgment, preceded by three years of hesitation, manifestly wrested from 
the feebleness of the pope, manifestly contrary to the opinion of the 
majority of the judges, nevertheless presents itself to the Church as in- 
fallible, — inspired by the Holy Spirit. We ask now, what was, what 
could be the belief in the Church’s infallibility in the mind of him who 
had exacted the condemnation ; in that of Bossueh who directed the 
whole affair ; in that of Fen6lon, who knew all its details ? Much has 
been said of his submission, but what does it prove, save that he found 
it necessary to submit ? Fifteen days after his condemnation, he wrote 


AND THE KING. 


169 


Can we then be astonished, that a preacher should be ill at 
ease in confronting a man who had opposed himself to the Pope ! 

as follows to the Abbe de Chaiiterac, his agent at Rome : “You have 
accomplished a hundred times more than I had dared to hope. God has 
permitted an unjust success.” A man who says to you, GoA has permitted 
my condemnation, is certainly not very strong in his convictions of the 
infallibility of the tribuns 1 > 


CHAPTER Xlll. 


LETTER FROM CLAUDE TO BOURDALOUE. SEVERE REPROOFS FOR FLATTEBT 

TO THE KING. 

The conclusion to be drawn from all that we have said, is not 
that a preacher was excusable for eulogizing the king upon all 
occasions ; it is, that we would be unjust if we claimed to be 
judges of all this, from the middle of the nineteenth century ; 
and also, to return to our story, that Claude would perhaps have 
done better to take the circumstances a little into consideration. 
But he was no courtier ; he called things by their right names. 
Here is his letter : 

“Versailles, March 16, 1673. 

“ Monsieur, — 

“ Do not seek to guess who I am. You do not know me 
by sight, and perhaps not by name ; and it is scarcely two hours 
since I saw you for the first time. But God sees us both ; that 
is enough. It is in his sight thaCi am writing, and it is in his 
sight that you will read. 

“ In the eyes of the world, you have just added a new gem to 
your orator’s crown ; in the eyes of religion, I much fear that you 
have but added a new scandal to those which are presented to 
view at court. 

“ Yes, Monsieur, you have profaned the pulpit ; and if I were 
not convinced that you had yielded to a miserable impulse, if I 
did not know how much in reality you respect both your minis- 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


161 


try and the word of God, I should not hope to make you feel 
how you have just been degrading and prostituting them both. 

“ In vain would you defend yourself by citing the exaggeration 
of the praises of all kinds, by which the king is overwhelmed. I 
know that it would not be difficult for you to quote flatteries an 
hundred times stronger than yours ; but one word from the pul- 
pit means more than twenty in the mouth of a poet or an orator 
of the Academy, and you may be certain that you have done 
more harm to the king in half an hour, than his professed flat- 
terers do in a whole month. 

“ And what is this king, of whom, in the face of religion, you 
have dared to make a hero, a saint, a demi-god ? You represented 
Europe to him, as full of admiration of his having consented to 
cease his conquests,^ yet you know, with all Europe, how unjust 
and cruel these conquests have been. It would be necessary to 
go back to the invasions of the barbarians to find any thing to be 

♦ One of the most artful, and unfortunately one of the easiest tricks 
to which flattery resorts, is to persuade conquerors that they make war 
against their will ; for no man is so fond of shedding blood, that he is not 
enchanted at hearing himself called gentle and humane. This unlucky 
idea is found in almost all the sermons preached before Louis XIV., and 
nevertheless, in his reign war had become, as it were, the natural state 
of things. It was so customary to see a new one undertaken every year, 
that it was spoken of beforehand, as one would speak of a tax to be paid, 
or of the return of a season. A father would say, “ My son will make 
his first campaign in such and such a year.” Against whom ? Nobody 
— perhaps the king himself had not yet decided ; but he was to be 
relied upon for it. And yet this did not prevent the constant presentation 
to him of touching pictures of the rending of his paternal heart upon 
seeing himself forced to command fresh bloodshed. The name of pacific, 
was even added to that of great ; witness these words of Cardinal de Ko- 
han, grand almoner of France, on presenting the body of Louis XIV. to 
the Chanoiue of St. Denis in 1715 “ The prince whom we lament has 

left magnificent titles behind him, and the remotest generations will 
admire as we do, Louis the great, the just, the pacified' This word is 
frequent in the inscriptions and medals of his reign. 

14 * 


162 


THE PREACHER 


compared witli the frightful war of the past year,^ whose motive 
is sti]' a mystery, and whose sole object seems to have been to oc- 
cupy the leisure time of an army of a hundred thousand men, at 
the expense of an inoffensive nation. And even if this war had 
been as just as it was the opposite, would that be any reason for 
cherishing in the aggressor’s mind the idea that he had been glo- 
rious in his successes in arms ? This famous passage of the 
Rhine,! ^ heard people who were present, say that it was 
mere absurdity to make such a commotion about an engagement 
without difficulty, and almost without danger. These forty cities 
captured in a month ; it is well known that many of them were 
but paltry towns, and that the best fortified of them had scarcely 
any one to defend them. Crushed, but not conquered, Holland 
is ready to revolt ; the politicians say, that by the end of this 
year the French will not have an inch of ground left there 
all this glory will one day in the eyes of history be as false as 
it now is in the eyes of religion, and as it ought to be to yours. 
Forced, however, to remember that the glory of heaven is prefer- 
able to that of earth, you told the king so, but in what terms ? 
Do you think it a good way to induce him to look higher, to 
repeat over and over to him that there is nothing under the sun 
to be compared to him ? In order to tell him in a few word^ 
that the day will come when he will no longer be anything, 
you exhaust your eloquence in showing him that he is now every- 

* Tlie war in Holland, 1672. 

f “If the king had only thrown himself, mounted, into the river, as he 
might have done almost without danger, Alexander and his Granicus 
might have hid their diminished heads.” Memoirs of Choisy. Clioisy ap- 
peared convinced, however, that Louis XIV. possessed much natural 
courage ; “ but,” he says, “ he could not take a step forwards, that twenty 
courtiers did not hasten to form themselves into a rampart around him, 
conjuring him not to endanger himself.” 

^ This was really the ease. 


A)D THE KING. 


163 


thing. You do not exactly conceal from him that his glory will 
pass away ; but you speak to him of this glory as the most bril- 
liant and the most legitimate that any man has ever possessed. 
As for its brilliancy, perhaps you are right ; but it is not in 
the pulpit that you need speak of it ; as for its legitimacy, I 
know that all his enterprises have not been campaigns of Hol- 
land, yet this is not the only one from which it would be w’ell to 
obliterate much. 

“ After the hero comes the saint.^ Here, allow me to quote. 

“The subject was perseverance ; you had described and incul- 
cated it. ‘ But who will persevere ?’ you asked ; ‘ where are 
these faithful and steady souls ? Thou alone, oh God, thou alone 
knowest them. I have reason also, however, to console myself ; 
I know, and the whole universe knows with me, that there is one 
heart here, formed by thy hand, a heart opposed to all fickleness, 
consistent in its conduct, steadily attached to the laws which it 
takes to guide it ; who having formed mighty designs, has per- 
formed prodigies of valor in their execution ; in order to do this, 
has sacrificed not only its repose and pleasures, but even its ad- 
vantage and interests. How far may not the perfection of thy 
law carry this firm and fearless heart, oh God ! And in this 
sense who ever has been fitter than it is for the kingdom of 
heaven V\ 

“ This, Monsieur, is more than flattery ; it is blasphemy. And 
among those things which posterity will scarce credit^ — again to 
employ one of your expressions, — these your words are not what 
will be found least strange, least incredible. 

“ That which you really do know, and which all the universe 

* Would it be very difficult to find saints in the Calendar who were 
not even so good as Louis XIY. ? The Church has sometimes bestowed 
tliis title with a liberality most embarrassing to those of its defenders who 
know something of history. f Literal. 


164 


THE PREACHER 


knows also, which posterity will know still better, trust me, — is 
that at the very moment when you wrote, studied, and recited 
these lines, the man to whom they are addressed, was abandon- 
ing himself to the most shameful scandals ; that the king of 
whom you were making a saint, was actually in a state of mortal 
sin. 

“The Scripture declares, that adulterers shall not enter into the 
kingdom of heaven ; you, you affirm in the presence of God, to 
an adulterous prince, that he is fitter than any other to do so. 

“ Morality, — I will not say the Scriptures, — but simple morality, 
teaches us to conside: its laws as innate in the minds of men, 
and consequently binding upon all ; and you praise the king 
for being steadily attached to those — which he has dictated to 
himself 

“The king has formed mighty designs. Yes, but besides those 
which have been mighty, in the proper sense of the word, are 
you ignorant how many there have been which were only for 
the misery of France and Europe ? And the expression, prodi- 
gies of valor, (the passage of the Rhine, probably !) of which 
you make use in the same sentence, leads me to believe but too 
certainly, that his military designs are those whose grandeur 
you allude to most particularly. 

“ The king is opposed to all fickleness. But in what ? If not 
so in his most sacred engagements, can you commend him for 
being so in the carrying out of his designs ? 

“ The king sacrificed his repose. Why that is the thing which 
is the smallest sacrifice to an ambitious man. Do you believe, 
in all sincerity, that it is a drudgery for him to go now and then 
to see the taking of a city Do you consider the owner of 

* It is remarliable that Louis XIV. never fought a battle, and that all 
I is exploits were sieges ; and further, that he left to his generals, his 
brother, or his sou, all those of which the success was not perfectly cer 


AND THE KING. 


165 


a field very praiseworthy for going* thither once a year in order 
to return loaded with the grain which has been sowed there and 
reaped for him ? These campaigns of the king are actual 
pleasure trips; he takes thither his wife, his mistresses,"^ his 
poets, his whole court ; he is followed by all his conveniences, by 
all the luxuries of a princely life, and all this is depicted to him 
as a life of fatigues and privations !f 

“ Further, you say that he has sacrificed his pleasures ; some- 
times for a few days, but the remainder of his time has he not 
given himself up to them without bounds ? Are not he and his 
court immersed in splendor and luxury ? 

“ And this. Monsieur, is what consoles you ! Ah ! tears ought 
rather to fail you for lamenting the fate of a man exposed to 
such temptations ; you should not be able to find words strong 
enough to delineate to him his dangers ! But no, you seem to 
delight in this idea. A little further on you say, ‘ Yes, Sire, it 
is your Majesty who is here my whole consolation.^ And as if 
it were not enough to give yourself as security for the sanctity 
which he does not possess, — ^Why do I speak of myself?’ you 
continue ; ‘ let me go further ! The angels who protect your 

tain. This circumstance did not escape those few critics who allowed 
themselves to remain undazzled by his glory. In the mocking little circle 
of the Prince de Conti, he was called “ the besieging king.” 

* The Queen, Madame de la Valliere, and Madame de Moutespan were 
once seen together in the same carriage. A peasant remarked naively, 
that he had just seen the three queens. 

f “ If he carries on so tedious a war,” wrote La Bruy^re in 1693, “ it 
is only to secure for us a happy peace ; it is to arrive at that height of 
his wishes, public happiness, that he devotes himself to the labors and 
fatigues of a troublesome war, that he exposes his person, and that he 
braves the inclemency of the heavens and of the seasons.” An dulogium 
of Louis XIV. could not be written without some phrases in this style. 
It is almost like begging for pity for this poor king, exposed from time 
to time to a shower of rain ? 


166 


THE PREACHER 


kingdom, tlie saints, who day and night continue their prayers 
for your sacred person, even God^ if I may venture to say so, 
will he not find, in the stability of your character, a consolation 
for the unfciithfulness of the greater number of Christians ?’* 
The king, then, is unquestionably saved ; you assure him, that 
the gates of heaven will be opened wide to receive him. But 
this is still not suflScient ; he 'possesses too many virtues for one 
solitary man ; God will console himself through him for the 
vices and imperfections of others. ‘ If I may venture to say 
so,’ you add, and you do venture ! And your hand did not 
wither when tracing such impiety ! At Rome, under a religion 
which permitted worship to be emperors, I do not believe that 
it was ever carried further than this.'* 

“ I became heated. Monsieur. I resolved, nevertheless, to be 
calm, to confine myself to drawing your attention to words, upon 
which I prefer to believe that you did not reflect seriously. My 
grief has conquered me. Strong in the rectitude of my inten- 
tions, I have set aside the man of genius, and have been so bold 
as to consider you but as a brother ; I have used, perhaps have 
abused the right bestowed upon me by this name. I have too 
great an esteem for you, to think that you will be offended by it. 

“The power of speech is a mighty power. If the monarch 
he responsible for the use he shall make of his, — the orator also 
has an account to give. The more talent and power given him 
for the bringing of souls to Christ, the more will be required of 
* Literal, 

f “ But for that fear of the devil, which God left to him, even in the 
midst of his greatest irregularities, he would have set himself up to be 
worshipped, and would have foimd worshippers.” — Saint-Simon. 

An inscription composed by the Jesuit Meuestrier, contained, — 

“ Numini majestatique Regis.” 

It is true that numen has not altogether the meaning divinity ; but it is 
net far from it. 


AND THE KING. 


167 


him in that day when they shall be judged. You can do much 
for their salvation, but you can do yet more 'for their perdition ; 
for in proportion to the reluctance with which men draw near to 
the straight gate, is the eagerness with which they precipitate 
themselves towards the other, if you are so unhappy as to open 
it a little.” 

In spite of all that we have said in explanation, if not in ex- 
cuse of Bourdaloue’s conduct, — it is difficult to conceive how he 
could pay so little attention to this letter, as to venture, after two 
years only, — upon the repetition of a composition which had 
drawn upon him such condemnation. However this may be, we 
have seen how rapid and sincere was the awakening of his con- 
science in Claude’s presence. 


CHAPTER XIV, 


CLAUDE ALONE WITH BOURDALOUE. — THE LATTER ACKNOWLEDGES HIMSELF 

WRONG, AND REQUESTS CLAUDe’s ASSISTANCE IN HIS SERMON. READS IT 

TO CLAUDE. THE LATTER BEGINS TO DICTATE A PERORATION. 

When Bossuet and the Fenelons had reached the bottom of 
the staircase, they perceived, not without astonishment, that the 
minister had not accompanied them. 

Yet they had seen him rise, take his hat, and direct his steps 
towards the door like themselves. They had not, however, per- 
ceived, that Bourdaloue had taken him by the arm, saying in a 
low tone, “ Remain.” 

Then returning after conducting his visitors out, he said : 

“ We are alone; I have need of it. — Yes, I remember this let- 
ter. I have kept it — here it is — ” 

And he took it out of a drawer. 

“ There it is — I should have done better to burn it and obey 
it, than to keep it without paying any regard to it. — Yes, that is 
it. — ‘ Do not seek to discover who I am — ’ I remember, how- 
ever, that I sought much to discover ; I made a thousand guesses ; 
but the letter itself overturned them one after the other. I 
thought of a number of persons at court, of Monsieur de Mon- 
tausier, of the Marshal de Bellefonds,^ — of some others ; but 

Friend of Bossuet, and of tlie Duke de Montausier. The independ- 
ence of his character was not at all times equally praisewprthy, for he 
was once disgraced for having refused to serve under Turenue, and the 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


169 


these gentlemen I knew, and the author of the letter declared 
himself to be unknown to me. I was assured that there was 
Fort-Royal in it ; if I had thought of Monsieur de Fenelon,— 
whom I had in effect never seen, but whom I knew by reputa- 
tion, — I should probably have fixed upon him. But the idea did 
not strike me. Two or three expressions made me almost sus- 
pect a Protestant hand ; others counteracted these, that of mortal 
sin, for instance, which I know that you do not allow — ” 

“ I put it on purpose.” 

“Why?” 

“ I did not wish that you should suspect with whom you were 
dealing.” 

“ Ah ! perhaps I should have better heeded you !” 

“ A Protestant !” 

“A Christian.” 

“ Tliere is a word, my brother, which is worth your finest 
sermon.” 

“ But that is not all,” resumed Bourdaloue. “ Do you know 
why Monsieur de Condom — 

“ Monsieur Bossuet ?” 

“ Monsieur Bossuet, I mean. You are parti(!ular as to this name ? 

“ Well, — yes. I do not recollect to have seen that Saint Paul 
had himself called Monsieur of Antioch, and still less Saint Peter 
— Monsieur of Rome — 

second time for having given battle against the orders of his general, the 
Marshal de Crequy. 

^ Still less. Claude doubtless alludes to the impossibility of establish- 
ing historically, not only that St. Peter was bishop of Rome, but even that 
he was ever there. Tradition fixes his death in 66, the same year with 
that of St. Paul. Now the book of Acts mentions him, without interrup- 
tion, as being either at Jerusalem, Cesarea or Antioch, until 52. From 
that time, we lose sight of him ; but in 58 or 59, St. Paul writes his epis- 
tle to the Romans. In the whole of this long letter, there is not a word 
of St. Peter, and at the end, when the author names and salutes as many 

15 


IVO 


THE PREACiiER 


“ Controversy, Monsieur de Cliarenton !” said Bourdaloue, 
smiling ; “ must I remind you of our agreement ?” 

“ Forgive me ; I shall not forget it again. You were saying, 
then, that Monsieur de Condom ? — ” 

“ Oh ! say 2:>lain Bossuet ; I shall not disj^ute with you in re- 
gard to that. — But, however, do you know why you found him 
liere? He came to advise me not to flatter the king to- 
morrow — ” 

“ He ! But he has often flattered him as much as you, per- 
haps more. — What a fit of severity !” 

“ In truth, I have not always seen him as he was to-day. He 
has even given the king, frequently, both in his discourses, or in 
his books, maxims which I would not give him, and which I 
think very dangerous.” 

“ Do you mean perhaps those on royal authority ?” 

“ Precisely. He sets no bounds to it ; the nations have but 
duties^ their kings have but rights. You Protestants ought to be 
more shocked at this, than any others, with your somewhat re- 
publican ideas.” ^ 

“ More distressed than shocked ; for such maxims only tend to 
prepare for the overturning of states and dynasties. In his 

as twenty-seven persons, he still does not say a word of him, whom it 
would have been natural to salute and mention first. Evidently, then, 
St. Peter was not at Rome in 68. In 61 Paul arrives in this city ; the 
Acts relate his stay there, but continue silent about Peter. In 62 or 63 
he writes four long epistles from Rome ; Peter is not mentioned in them. 
In 66, the year of his death, he writes to Timothy. “ All have forsaken 
him,” he says. Where, then, was Peter ? 

* See Bossuet’s writings against Jurieu and Basnage. Alarmed for the 
results of their ideas in regard to the sovereignty of the people, he insists 
more and more, with a kind of terror, on the dogma of absolute authority. 
Thus he sometimes goes so far, that the mosli ardent defenders of this 
dogma would not venture at the present day ei her to reproduce his ideas, 
or even to employ his expressions. 


AND THE KING. 


171 


^Politique tiree de VEcriture' Monsieur Bossuet has repeated and 
amplified all the most exaggerated things that were said on this 
subject in the still pagan and already barbarian Rome of the 
earliest Christian emperors.'^ ‘ Kings are gods, and participate 
in some sort in the divine independence.’ ‘ The prince himself 
can render justice when he knows that he has done wrong ; but 
against his authority there can be no refuge save in his author- 
ity.’! twenty quotations of the sort might be made. If 

the king should practice all that M. Bossuet has said of royal 
authority, literally, — the Turks would be a free people compared 
with the French.”]; 

“ It must, however, be said, that this same book is full of very 
wise things, very severe things even, in regard to the responsibility 
of kings before God, in regard — but you are right; my sermon 
also is full of them, full of just such things. But let us return to 
it, I pray. M. Bossuet has had a long conversation with the 
king ; he has almost forced from him the promise that he will 

* “ Sacrilegii instar est dubitare an recte judicaverit imperator ; an is 
dignus sit quem elegerit etc.” — Code of TnEODosros. 

d’he laws of Gratian and Valentinian abound in declarations of this 
kind. See Montesquieu, book xii. 

f ^Policy, dreiwn from the Scriptures^ book iv., chap. 1st, entitled, 
“ Royal authority is absolute.” This chapter is a very good reply to those 
who might be tempted to assert, as has often been attempted during the 
last ten years, that Catholicism is, and always has been, friendly to liberal 
ideas. If it has sometimes claimed the rights of the people, it has been 
to confiscate them for its own profit ; wherever it cannot hope to substitute 
itself for royal despotism, it is its firmest support and warmest defender. 

f During the war of the succession, at the time of increasing. his al- 
ready enormous taxes, Louis XIV. experienced some hesitation, and de- 
manded of several doctors, whether he could conscientiously consider 
himself as master of the possessions of his subjects. He might have 
spared himself the trouble, for Bossuet had decided the question as posi- 
tively as he could desire. At any rate, the doctors whom he consulted, 
would have taken care to leave him in no embarrassment. 


112 


THE PREACHER 


put an end to his irregularities ; he wants me to strike a hard 
blow to-morrow. When you came in, I was beginning to read 
him my sermon ; he had promised to help me, — take his place — ” 

“ Willingly ; but what will he say ?” 

“ What matters it ! It is I who ask you to do so.” 

“ And you do not fear — ” 

“ I ought only to fear one thing, and that is, to be judged too 
leniently. That will not be the case with you.” 

“ No — but you run a great risk of being served beyond what 
you may wish. Since you authorize me to speak with all frank- 
ness, I shall perhaps blame things which even at present do not 
appear blamable to you.” 

“ I am prepared for anything.” 

“ Well, read on.” 

Bourdaloue read his text ; then commenced ; 

“Sire”— 

“ I stop you here,” said Claude. 

“ In regard to the text ?” 

“No, but this word sire. Is there no way of leaving it out ? 
You seem by using it, to make an agreement only to speak to 
the king and for the king.” , 

“ It is an agreement which is not kept. After the first two or 
three phrases, usage permits me to say, ‘ my brethren^ as if the 
king were no longer there. It is what I generally do ; you will 
see.” 

“ If it is a mere form, I do not insist ; but it appears to me 
unfortunate. After having commenced with the king, it seems 
natural to finish with him also ; and from thence come the com- 
plimentary perorations. But go on, if you please.” 

He continued, and for a long time Claude had only to keep 
silence and admire. It is true that now and then there occurred 
Catholic f^rms of expression, of which he could not approve, 


AND THE KING. 


]73 


'which he himself would not use; but that did not prevent him 
from following with delight the long series of proofs and reasons, 
where, as has been remarked, “the most studied arguments re- 
sembled sudden inspirations.”^ And, besides, the subject itself, 
the miraculous contrast between the Saviour’s humiliation on 
earth, and his greatness as God, between the horrors of the cross 
and the glories of heaven, — this was enough most profoundly to 
impress the soul of such an auditor as he. 

It is true, that the orator, after reading one or two pages with 
some monotony and a degree ' of embarrassment, had gradually 
become at his ease. And even more, — owing to some remains 
of his agitation, to the beauty of the discourse, perhaps also, who 
knows ? to a slight shade of vanity, his ‘ enunciation had some- 
thing more animated, more- penetrating than in- the pulpit ; freed 
from the anguish of recitation by heart, he threw into it a warmth, 
a rapidity, a feeling, which had perhaps never been before re- 
marked in him. 

At the end of the first part, he raised his eyes. Claude was 
motionless, and did not even appear to perceive this mute inter- 
rogation. His silence was the highest praise. 

Towards the end of the second part, Bourdaloue’s voice sud- 
denly lost its firmness; his brow clouded. Recalled thus, in 
spite of himself, to the sad reality of his office of judge, Claude 
understood that they were approaching the delicate subject : 

— “ Who will persevere ? Where are the souls who are faith- 
ful to their promises, steadfiist in their resolutions ? Neverthe- 
less, I have grounds for consolation — ” 

Bourdaloue was silent, and bowed his head. “We are there,” 
he said, “ you know the rest.” 

“Well! write—” 

“ What 8” 

* Dussault. 

15 ^ 


174 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


“ What I am going to dictate to you.” 

“ Dictate to me ?” 

“ Yes. You can do what you please with it.” 

He obeyed. This situation of scholar^eemed to him, however, 
somewhat strange ; in asking for aid, he had not expected to re- 
ceive a master. But it was only his first feeling of astonishment, 
for he already understood Claude’s heart too well to be offended 
at his manner, or to attribute to him a wish to humiliate any 
one. And in truth Claude was very far from this. He had just 
had some ideas which he thought good, and did not wish the 
inspiration to cool. Besides it seemed to him more natural to 
dictate them to Bourdaloue, leaving him the freedom of inter- 
rupting him when he would, than to write them himself and give 
them to him as a lesson to be learned. 


CHAPTER XV. 


ARRIVAL OF FATHER LA CHAISE. HE GIVES HIS OPINION OF THE SERMON.— 

BOURDALOUe’s UNEASINESS. 

But the fii-st line was scarcely written, wlieri, “ Good evening, 
my dear brother, good evening !” cried, (entering without being 
announced,) a man whom Claude recognized as belonging to the 
same order with Bourdaloue, and whose physiognomy oftered a 
singular mixture of cunning and goodness, of circumspection and 
frankness. 

“You are alone,” he continued; “good ! I begin to be some- 
w'hat reassured — ” 

He had not seen Claude. The chamber was quite large ; and 
as the minister w'as in the habit of walking while he dictated, the 
Jesuit had entered by accident, when he was at the further ex- 
tremity. And he remained there. 

Confused, Bourdaloue could only make a slight motion in that 
direction as if to inform the new comer. But he, not perceiving 
it, unceremoniously took a seat. 

“What is this that I have heard?” he resumed. “That you 
w'ere going to play me a trick to-morrow, and a trick — ” 

“ I !” 

“ Yes. I am told that M. de Condom has been to see you ; 
tnat his visit was connected with to-day’s affairs ; and that it 
goes so far as to be a question of nothing less than a public ex- 
hortation of the king, not to perform his Easter devotions with- 
out having sent away Mine, de Montespan — ” 


176 


THE PREACHER 


“ And if it should be so ?” 

“ If it should be so ! Well, you are really admirable ! You 
do not perceive then, into what a frightful embarrassment you 
would throw me ? If it should be so ! Why, if the preacher of 
the king allow himself to say such things, pray what becomes of 
the confessor ?”^ 

“ Apropos of confessor, I thought you were in bed. I heard 
that you had been bled — ” 

“ Twice, brother, twice, — and if the first was the comedy, the 
second was not, I swear to you. I had gained enough bad blood 
m the interval. What a position, good God, what a position ! 
And how well poor Father Ferrier would have done to live ten 
years longer, and leave me at Lyons with my folios and medals !” 

“ You do not always say that. You did not say so yesterday.” 

“ Alas ! it is not certain that I shall say it to-morrow. If you 
but knew what the king is for me ! He heaps upon me all the 
favors which can most dazzle and overwhelm me. I don’t sj)eak 

* Besides the arguments, religious and otherwise, which have generally 
beeu used for or against confession, there is one very simple question to 
be asked, it seems to us ; — have the Roman Catholic sovereigns been, upon 
the whole, more religious and moral than the Protestants. If there were 
an equal amount of weakness and vice on each side, we might even then 
ask what was the use of this superfluous expense of confessors ; still more 
may we ask this, if it be true, as we think, that tliere has been more mo; 
rality, or less immorality among sovereigns without confessors, than 
others. But without insisting upon these vague comparisons, let us con- 
^ne ourselves to a fact which none will deny ; namely, that the immoral- 
.ties of Roman Catholic sovereigns have been many times displayed, in a 
nanner unequalled for audacity and shamelessness. After this, is it 
enough to remark, that confession did not hinder these scandalous dis- 
plays ! May not we add, that it was in some degree the cause of them. 
It may be doubted whether a man who respected religion and feared hell, 
Louis XIV. for instance, would have openly given such scandal, without 
the unfortunate facility of depositing every month, every week, every 
day, if he saw fit, his burden of sins, at the feet of a man intimidated or 
can-ied away from duty. 


AND THE KING; 


il1 


of pensions; I h .ve already twice as many of them as I need, 
and he has often expressed his regret that he cannot present me 
with benefices.^ It is I who keep the list of them. He tells me, 
‘Do not forget your friends.’ But giving is nothing to him, 
and so he seems to seek out methods of giving to me, in order 
that his benefits shall have the greater possible value. Stay — • 
it was but a fortnight ago that he saw me pluck a primrose in 
the park of St. Germain. ‘ You have flowers V he said to me. 

‘ I wish that you should have a garden.’ A week passed. I 
supposed that he thought no more of it, or that he waited until 
we should be at Versailles to give me a little piece of ground. 
Not so. I learn that he has had an immense garden bought, 
and the orders are given for the building of a delicious house 
in it.” 

“ Where is it ?” asked Bourdaloue. 

“ At Menilmontant.”f 

. “ Oh ! oh ! Five leagues from Versailles ?” 

“ Yes, it is rather far — but I am not sorry for that.” 

“ Nor he, I suppose. Provided that he sees you once a month, 
it probably does not signify much to him.” 

“ Nor to me, neither. — But, however, he had thirty ways of 
getting rid of me ; I confess that it could not be done with a bet- 
ter grace. They say that I am his courtier; it is rather he that 
is mine. During my pretended indisposition of yesterday, how 
many times do you think he sent to inquire after me ? I am 
sorry I did not count ; but there were at least ten messages — ■” 

“ And you attribute that to his desire to know that you are ’ 
better ?” 

“ On the contrary, my good friend, on the contrary. —I believe, 

* It was contrary to the rules of the order. 

f It is this garden which has since become the cemetery called Fere la 
Chaise. 


178 


TH E PREACHER 


however, that he would be sorry to have me die, for then he 
would have a new eonfessor to take, and a new education to be- 
gin, while mine, alas^ ! is three quarters finished but so long as 
it does not go to that length, I have every reason to think that 
he will never be displeased with me for being ill at Easter. 
However that may be, such an interest for my health is no less — 
in the eyes of the court — ^you understand — an immense distinc- 
tion.”! 

“ And you call that an education three quarters finished ? You 
are very modest.” 

“ It is finished, you think ? Well, you are mistaken. It is 
not ; it will not be, please God. There is such a thing as a con- 
science, Father Bourdaloue — ” 

“ And people often act as if they had none. Father La Chaise.” 

“ And so you have resolved to have enough for two, it ajjpears. 
— I have been rightly informed, I see ; it is to-morrow that your 
zeal is to signalize itself at my expense. I should like to read it, 
-T-this famous sermon !” 

“Yes? Well, there it is.” 

“ You allow me ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“But I see nothing there — ” exclaimed Father La Chaise, 
after having rapidly run over the firet part. “ But I see nothing 
here either,” he exclaimed again, after having run over the sec- 
ond part a little less rapidly. 

“ Ah, the conclusion — well — let us see. — Well, the leaf is toin 
out ?” 

* “ It is more difficult to fulfil one’s duties, than to find priests to dis- 
pense one from doing so.” — Montesquieu. Persian Letters. 

f Louis XIV. having one day whispered a few words in the ear of 
Madame de Brinon, superieuse of St. Cyr, — this lady, hitherto humble and 
modest, became insupportably haughty. 


AND THE KING. 


179 


“ Here it is, here it is.” 

“ All crumpled ?” 

“I — ^yes — an accident — while studying — while reading — a 
somewhat abrupt gesture — " 

“ My dear friend, you are quizzing me. If you tore oflf this 
conclusion it is because you have another one.” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“No, I tell you, upon the word of — ” 

“ Are you going to say on the word of a Jesuit^ like your Port- 
Royal friends ?” 

“ You ought to know that I never jest upon those subjects 
which religion and my habit order me to respect.” 

And yet it was somewhat jesuitically, in the Pascalian sense of 
the word, that Bourdaloue had replied no. Father La Chaise 
had asked, “ have you another ?” A^o, signified “ I have not,” 
and this was true ; but the question evidently meant, “ are you 
going to write another ?” and thus this no approached somewhat 
to a falsehood. Was it jestingly, or seriously that he had said 
it ? We incline to think that there was a little of both. Then 
we must not forget the uneasiness in which he was kept by the 
presence of Claude ; he did not in reality exactly know what he 
was saying. 

“ I go for nof said the confessor, who had already recom- 
menced reading, this time attentively, line after line. 

“ But it is admirable, all that !” he cried, after the first few 
phrases. — “ What talent ! what art ! How the ideas flow into 
one another ! How well it is brought out ! I have reason, how- 
ever, for consolation — ” 

He thought he heard a movement at the extremity of the 
chamber. But hearing nothing further, he resumed, “/or conso- 
lation ; (still reading,) I know, and the whole universe knows as 


180 


THE PREACHER 

well — good ! good ! And who has ever been Jitter than he for the 
kingdom of heaven ! — Admirable ! Admirable !” 

In short, one might have imagined that Father La Chaise knew 
Claude’s letter, and was striving to reverse it from beginning 
to end. 

Bourdaloue was in agonies. He felt that his cause was not 
so widely separated from that of his companion, that these 
scandalous commendations might not bring condemnation upon 
him the author of the eulogy, — in the mind of the minister. 
What tormented him the most, was the thought of the conclu- 
sions to which Claude would probably come, in regard to the 
principles and tendencies of the Jesuits. So, burning with im- 
patience to cut it short, he was sometimes upon the point of call- 
ing to him, sometimes he sought in his mind for some method 
of supplicating him not to appear, proposing to himself after- 
wards to excuse to the best of his ability, if not his companion, 
at least his order. 

In the meantime, the Father continued. All that he thought 
particularly good, he read aloud. When he arrived at that 
sentence which Claude had called blasphemy, he could no longer 
contain himself ; he was enthusiastic. 

And this enthusiasm was sincere. A man of some mind, — 
in the habit of seeking and finding only one of the branches of 
the oratorical art, in preaching, — every brilliant or dexterous idea 
seemed to him excellent from that very quality ; he troubled 
himself very little about the principles ; still less about the reli- 
gious and moral effect. In argumentative compositions, he de- 
tected with incomparable address the smallest or the best con- 
cealed faults ; at such times he was again in all his vigor, the 
late professor of philosophy, the man who had for twenty years 
attracted all the youth of Lyons to his instructions. In com- 
positions with which feeling had anything to do, he noticed no- 


AND THE KING. 


181 


thing but the style. A valiant champion of the laws of logic, 
he generally treated those of religion and morals very lightly. 

We have already had occasion to remark with how many hon- 
orable qualities this laxity was combined in him. “ He was of 
common-place mind,” said Saint Simon, “ but of good disposition. 
Just, upright, disinterested, polite, modest, very much of a Jesuit, 
but moderate, and without servility.” Voltaire calls him “ a mild 
man, with whom the road to reconciliation was always open 
bill it is rare that a conciliatory person has at the same time enough 
strength never to be so at the expense of those things in which all 
conciliation is blamable. It is not hypocrites alone who say with 
Tartufe ; “ There is a way of arranging matters with heaven.” 

This language is still oftener that of lukewarmness or of weak- 
ness. La Chaise was one of those men who have the misfor- 
tune to be vividly impressed neither by good nor evil. 

“ Perfect, — really, — perfect !” he said to Bourdaloue, returning 
him his manuscript. 

“ Yes ? And yet certain scruples have presented themselves — ” 

“ Say rather that they have been presented to you.” 

“ That is not the question. Presented or not, I have them. 
And if you will — ” 

“ Let us have them — ” 

“ Well, — would I say to the king in private, what I am going 
to say to him before all his court ? W ould you say it to him, you ?” 

“ A pretty question ! Does one ever use the same language 
in a tbte-a-t6te as in the pulpit ?” 

“ No, as far as style goes ; but the ideas ? Do you think that 
what is false in itself, can pass for true in the pulpit ?” 

“ True ! true ! Who talks of that ? Who is going to ex- 
amine wliether the praises given to the king in pul lie are the 
exact expression of the truth ?” 

“ And suppose he takes them as truth !” 


182 


THE PREACHER AND THE KINO 


“ My dear brother, you must confess that one would not ex- 
pect these reflections from him who wrote these two pages here — ’ 

Bourdaloue cast down his eyes. 

“ And who is preparing himself to recite them to-morrow,” 
added La Chaise, in an incredulous and questioning tone. And 
as Bourdaloue did not reply, he said : “ You are not frank with 
me, — it is bad ; you will persist in throwing me into perplex- 
ity, — it is bad — very bad. In fact you are quite pale — ” 

He took his hand, and said in the most caressing tone : 

“ Have you reflected well, my dear brother ? If you go and 
talk severely to the king, you exile yourself from the pulpit of 
Versailles. Would it not be better to remain in his good 
graces, and keep in your power the means of bringing him af- 
terwards, but gradually and without violence,^ to the change 
which we all desire ? Yes, all, for you do not do me the wrong 
to think that I care more about my garden than the king’s 
salvation. Come, let us discuss the matter. You have a splen- 
did composition there, which will give the greatest pleasure to the 
king, and the greatest honor to you. It is the last sermon of 
this Lent — be j^rudent, and I promise you that you shall preach 
again next year. Then, do what you choose. Be terrific from 
the very first sermon. But to-morrow ! The day but one before 
Easter ! Once more, I ask, do you think of such a thing ? 
AViio will thank you for this great effort of zeal and courage ? 
The court ? Doubtful. The king ? Still more doubtful. No 
one, you see, no one — ” 

“ Except God !” said Claude. 

* “ Christianity is like a great salad. The nations are the herbs ; the 

doctors are the salt ; vos estis sal terrcB. Macerations are the vinegar, 

and the oil, the good Jesuit fathers. A Jesuit smooths everything.”— 
Father Andre: Sermon on Zeal. 

“ Since,” adds the author, “ a drop of oil always spreads ; — Put oni 
Jesuit into a province, and it will soon be full of them.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


FATHER LA CHAISE STARTLED. HE DEPARTS, AND CLAUDE CONTINUES HIS 

DICTATION. 

“ A THUNDERBOLT falling at his feet, could not have produced, — 
etc.” 

If this phrase were not so old, and were not to be found in all 
romances, we should not know a better one to describe the effect 
of these words upon the reverend father. Stupefied, scared, his 
eyes immoderately stretched open, wandered from Claude to Bour- 
daloue, which latter, almost as much confounded as himself, was 
not very capable of commencing an explanation. Claude was 
silent. He remained at three paces distant, standing motionless, 
and still half enveloped in the shadows which obscured two-thirds 
of the room. 

“ Who — who is this ? Who is this man ?” at length asked 
Father La Chaise. 

“ It is a — it is — my secretary.” 

“ A plague take your secretary ! He has given me a fright.” 
This word fright expired on his lips. Claude had advanced a 
step or two; the light fell brilliantly upon his severe counte- 
nance, and his glance was very little like that of a secretary in 
the cabinet of his employer. 

“ Your — your secretary ? Monsieur is your secretary ?” 

“ Monsieur,” said Claude, “ if your conscience were easy in re- 


184 


THE PREACHER 


gard to the words which I may possibly have heard you speak, 
you would not be so startled to see me here.” 

“ Startled ! — I ! — My conscience ! — By what right ?” 

“ Oh ! I know very well that I have not a confessor s 
diploma — ” 

“But who are you, then? Who is this, Monsieur Bourda- 
loue ?” 

“ What difference does that make ?” resumed Claude. “ How- 
ever, shall I tell you who it is ? It is an honorable man, mon- 
sieur, whose indignation is aroused when he hears calculations 
like those which you have just been making. It is a Chiistian, 
to whom you will not deny the right to groan for the injury 
which you do to religion, and for the wretchedness of the souls 
which you cause to perish — 

“ He insults me !” cried the father, “ in your presence ! in your 
house! And you do not make him hush! Do you join with 
him then ? In that case, I have only to retire — ” 

“ Make me hush, monsieur ! And by what right ? let me ask 
in my turn. You say you are insulted. Is it my fault if truth 
is an insult to you ? For in fact, it is only truth that I have told 
you ; truth, such as you would hear it from all pious lips, if they 
dared tell it to you ; truth, such as you would read it in all, even 
the least pious hearts, if God permitted you to read them. You 
have, like the king whom you are aiding to undo, — you have, 
(and it is the beginning of your punishment,) those who undo you. 
You are sought after, flattered ; you are, in fact, the first and the 
most powerful of the ministers of the crown. Tremble ! It is 
never with impunity that one is placed near to a throne, The 
truth, which you conceal from the king, others conceal from you ; 
but also upon you falls all the odium of the vices which you tol- 
erate, and consequently encourage in him. There is not a 
courtier so corrupt, so shameless, so interested that the king 


AND THE KING. 


185 




should continue in his vices, as not to see that it is your duty to 
vrithdraw him from them, and that you lie to your conscience, to 
your charge, to your God. But pardon, pardon me. God is my 
witness that it is from no bitterness, no personal animosity — ” 

La Chaise no longer heard him. At the first words, the poor 
Jesuit had risen, and in spite of all Bourdaloue’s efforts, had not 
ceased his progress towards the door, — menacing Claude at some 
moments, and at others overwhelmed. When he had reached 
the door, Claude also wished to stop him, but in vain. In a few 
seconds he had reached the foot of the stairs. 

“ It is useless,” said the minister, sadly ; “he is gone. Be sure 
to tell him, I beg of you, that I did not expect so sudden a de- 
parture, and that I should have been glad to shake hands with 
him. He would have seen that the purest zeal was the only 
source of my reproaches, and that charity had not for an instant 
quitted my heart. But where were we ? There is no time to 
be lost. Have you the courage to go on ?” 

'-'‘Imust have it. Good God! what an evening! What a 
scene !” 

“ Did I do wrong in showing myself ?” 

“ Oh ! no. When you interrupted him, it seemed to me as if 
he were Satan himself, there was so much art and so much se- 
duction in his words. And yet he is not bad ; he is weak — ” 

“ Well ! and do you not know, that in this world the weak do 
more harm than the wicked ?” 

“ I have said it often in the pulpit, but I have never understood 
t as well as to-day. Go on, I am ready.” 

Claude recommenced his walk, and sometimes quickly, some- 
> iines a little less rapidly, according as words came more or less 
rtbundantly, he dictated to him about four pages. 

“ I shall never dare to say that !” cried Bourdaloue, at a cer- 
tain passage. 


16 * 


186 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


Claude continued without heeding. 

“ I shall never dare to say that !” he repeated, throwing down 
his pen after having written the last words. 

‘ Yes, you will dare,"' said Claude. And he went away. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


BOUEDALOUE REMAINS ALONE. — COMMITS TO MEMORY AND RECITES HIS PERORA- 
TION. — BOSSUET HEARS AND APPROVES OF IT. 

Bourdaloue, however, remained seated. In committing has- 
tily to paper the rapid improvisation of Claude, he had scarcely 
been able to take it in as a whole ; he had not even endeavored 
to do this. Agitated, uneasy, his mind had only followed his 
pen. Claude had been gone a quarter of an hour, before he had 
even glanced at the pages lying before him. 

At length, he appeared to perceive them ; his eye rested upon 
them, at first casually, then with more and more attention. He 
read, he re-read his new peroration, and at every sentence, (for he 
was accustomed to read aloud,) his voice became stronger, his ac- 
cent more spirited. Look at the musician whose eye falls by 
chance on a beautiful composition which is new to him. He 
runs through it at first carelessly ; he does not sing, — he scarcely 
hums it. Gradually he becomes aroused ; one measure pleases 
him, then a second, — then another. — His enthusiasm is awakened, 
and to the real beauty of the composition is added the brilliancy 
of an improvisation. — The applause is unanimous. 

No one applauded the orator, for he was alone ; but he him- 
self applauded ; he was more and more astonished, more and 
more struck. 

We have not this passage. It was not found among Bour- 
dal Aue’s papers, and the sermon has come down to posterity with 


188 


THE PREACHER 


the pages which the author tore out. — Why for the sake of his 
honor were they not lost ! 

“ That is it,” he at length exclaimed ; “ that is it ! I shall 
leave out nothing, I shall add nothing. — They may say what they 

will. — What a pity that the author should be a But who 

will know that, after all ? And if it is well received, if it touches 
the king’s conscience — ” 

He stopped, and became thoughtful. 

“ If it touches the king’s conscience,” he said to himself, “ it 
will do me much credit ; — much credit for a courage, — which I 
shall not have had of my own accord ; — much credit for an elo- 
quence which is not my own. And what is to be done, however ? 
— Bah ! God will provide. — I will go on, at all events.” 

And, leaving the paper, he began to repeat the first lines by 
heart, — then the following, — then more still. — In short, he had 
finished when he scarcely thought he had learned half. He 
could not recover from his surprise ; he had never found his 
memory so prompt ; he had never before so well understood the 
Abbe de Fenelon’s favorite maxim, that a passage really written 
with enthusiasm is always quickly learned, even when one is not 
its author. 

As he finished, the door opened, and a man hastened in an agi- 
tated manner toward him, with his arms extended. — It was Bossuet. 

He had returned from the chateau. — In hearing from the 
staircase the sound of the preacher’s voice, he had not been able 
to restrain as before at the sight of the shadow, a slight smile of 
pity. But as he ascended, the voice became more impressive ; 
the words, which he began to distinguish, seemed, like the tone, 
to have something new and penetrating; it was Bourdaloue, and 
it was not he. Motionless behind the door, his head bent for- 
ward, and his hand on the latch, he listened. — His astonishment, 
his admiration continued to increase ; and as the periods were 


AND THE KING. 


189 


too rounded and flowing for him to believe them extemporized, 
he could not conceive how, in less than two hours, the orator had 
written so much, and memorized it so well. But what astonish- 
ed him the most, was, to find the man whom he had left so de- 
pressed, suddenly raised to such a height, — for he was a long way 
from supposing that any one had aided in this ; he had even for- 
gotten that Claude remained with Bourdaloue after the departure 
of the Fenelons and himself. 

One of the greatest pleasures which we can have, either through 
the mind or the heart, is to hear expressed with precision and 
power our own ideas ; and sentiments which are dear to us, but 
which we have never yet expressed ourselves, because we should 
have ti-emhled for fear of expressing them tamely, or badly, — and 
for this reason, the greatest triumphs of eloquence have always 
been owing, much less to any novelty of ideas, than to the abil- 
ity, or rather the enthusiasm with which the orator seized upon 
those which he knew to be already existing in the minds of his 
audience.* Never, perhaps, had this enjoyment been more vivid- 
ly experienced by Bossuet than in this moment. In indicating 
to Bourdaloue the principal ideas to be added to his discourse, he 
had not concealed from himself, what a difficult task it must be. 
A man of experience is rarely at a loss to know what to say ; 
but the how to say it puzzles the most skilful. We do not doubt 
but that Bossuet would have succeeded very well ; but it was no 
less an agreeable surprise for him to find that which he had left 
in the germ, fully developed, and developed with a copiousness 
and vigor which he scarcely flattered himself that he would have 
been able to attain. 

“ And I who came back to help you!” he cried, “/nd you 
who had asked me to do so ! — Truly, whe> one wri<^es so slowly 
and so ill, one absolutely requires aid ! — ” 

^ “ Tautum de medis suraptis accedit honoris.* Mosace. Art. Poet 


190 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


“ You heard me ?” said Bourdaloue, turning pale. 

“ Yes — certainly — ” 

“ All ?” 

“ Almost all. As far as 1 could judge, you were just com- 
mencing as I arrived.” 

“ Why did you not come in ?” 

“ And interrupt you ? I took care not to do that.” 

“ At all events, are you satisfied 2” 

“ And you, — are not you ?” 

He sighed. Nothing is sweeter than praise, even when we 
do not think ourselves entirely deserving of it; but when we feel 
that it belongs entirely to another, it is a torment to us. How 
then could Bourdaloue remain silent 2 If any other than Claude 
had been the author of these pages so highly approved of by 
Bossuet, Bourdaloue would not have hesitated a moment to 
undeceive him ; perhaps he would have done it, difiicult as 
the confession would have been, if Bossuet had given him time, 
and had not immediately begun to relate ' to him his recent 
interview with the king. He contented himself, accordingly, 
with resolving to undeceive him at some future time; unless, 
indeed, this conclusion of the sermon should fail, or give of- 
fence, in which case he would take upon himself the whole re- 
sponsibility. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


LOUIS XIV. MADAME DE MONTESPAN. — THE DUKE DU MAINE. — BOSSUEl AGAIN 

WITH THE KING. DEPARTURE OF MADAME DE MONTESPAN 

Let us retrace our steps a little. What had passed between 
Bossuet and the king ? 

Upon hearing himself summoned by the monarch, so soon after 
having sent a letter which he had almost repented having writ- 
ten, he could not but be somewhat uneasy. What did the king 
want ? To thank him for having spoken, or to order him to 
be silent ? Both suppositions were equally in accordance with 
the promptitude of the message. The darkness of the streets, 
and the solitude of his chair, giving free course to his excited 
imagination, he seemed at one moment to behold the king ir- 
ritated, excited, throwing off angrily the yoke which he had 
attempted to impose upon him ; at another, he fancied he heard 
him reiterate, but humbly and seriously, the same “ What is to 
be done which had remained the first time without result. 

On the other hand, having gone out at night, and without in- 
forming any one, he could not at all understand how the king 
had known where to send after him. This last point puzzled 
him extremely ; an excited mind finds mystery in everything. 
There was, however, no mystery in this, as we shall soon see. 

Instead of one letter, the king had received two, and by acci- 
dent they were brought to him at the same time. From the 
address of the one, he perceived that it came from Bossuet ; 


192 


THE PREACHER 


and he had still less trouble in guessing from whom came the 
other. But with which should he commence ? He hesitated. 
Not that he was not burning with impatience to open the sec- 
ond ; but he thought that he owed it to his conscience and to 
Bossuet to commence with his letter, and if it were only for 
form’s sake, to take the arms offered him before engaging in a 
new combat. The first carried the day ; but he had scarcely 
broken the seal when he took the other and opened it. While 
unfolding it, came another twinge of conscience, and he ended 
by throwing them both down. 

He soon returned to them; and as they had fallen into a 
dark corner, he took that which first presented itself. It w^as a 
sort of medium between his inclination and his scruples. 

He did not repent of having done this, for the letter he had 
picked up, was that of Mme. de Montespan. 

Written in the presence, and almost from the dictation of her 
two sisters, this letter nevertheless bore the impress of a kind of 
emotion which the king was little accustomed to see in the mar- 
quise. She said not a word of Bossuet, but the influence of his 
visit was visible. There w^as less levity, less arrogance ; a calm- 
ness evidently affected, but which on any other occasion she 
would not even have taken the trouble to afiect. Further, it 
was but the amplification, sometimes abrupt, sometimes insinu- 
ating and sophistical, of her last words to Bossuet. The king is 
master^ she had said, and she repeated this to him in every way. 
It is well understood what this means ; whoever aftects to re- 
mind you that you are the master, you may be sure that it is 
neither in the desire of having you use your rights, nor in the 
intention of obeying you. The king asked nothing better than 
to order nothing, or not to be obeyed ; but he would have wish- 
ed something more positive ; a firmer resistance, or a more sin- 
cere submission ; more direct reproaches, or the absence of all 


AND THE KING. 


193 


feproacli, a letter in fine which would either have again bound 
him fast in his cliains, or which would have completed their de- 
struction. This was neither the one nor the other, and when we 
are in a state of indecision, we do not like it to appear that the 
v\ hole charge and responsibility of the decision is left with us. 

Disappointed, he took up Bossuet’s letter again. The moment 
was a favorable one. His mind and heart seemed freer ; it was 
the agreeable surprise which one feels, — even while still burdened 
with more than one reason for distress, — upon perceiving that a 
sacrifice which is to be made is less severe than one had believed. 
However, notwithstanding this beginning of a return to reason 
and order, it would have been impossible to follow without anx- 
iety^ the alternations of docility and pride, of resignation and 
anger, which depicted themselves on his countenance as he went 
on. All the contradictory impressions which Bossuet had desired 
or feared to produce upon him, might have been seen rapidly 
succeeding each other at every line, and at the end the question 
would still have remained to be decided, as to whether the gen- 
eral eftect were fiivorable or otherwise. It was in vain that this 
letter was bolder than the boldest things which Louis XIV. had 
ever heard or read ; he had been allowed so to contract the habit 
of arranging the most positive teachings, the severest lessons, to 
suit himself, that it had become in some sort impossible for him 
to take them literally, even when he could not possibly doubt 
that they were addressed to him and only to him. Thus, it was 
not so easy to wound him as one would have believed ; his pride 
was so great and so deeply rooted as to produce in him quite 
the contrary effect from that which it produces in the generality 
of men. With an ordinary amount of pride you are touchy; 
with an excessive amount you are more tractable ; you do not 
dream that any one could have any intention to wound you.* 
* The social or hierarchical position ofteu produces the same effect. A 

IV 


194 


THE PREACHER 


Thus the king was far less offended than Bossuet had feared he 
would be ; it might almost be said that he was not at all so, and 
that if he seemed irritated, it was only because he had found so 
many good reasons, where his heart, stronger than his head, had 
only desired to find bad ones. 

These reasons, however, could not be absolutely without effect 
upon a man who was not destitute of judgment, nor even of some 
conscience. Still too feeble to be led by them to an explicit 
determination, he had at least the strength to wish for aid in 
this rude operation. It was therefore that he sent for the author 
of the letter. He did not very well know what to say to him, 
but he desired to see him again. 

Unhappily, this favorable state of mind was not to last until 
the arrival of the prelate. 

Scarcely had the king given orders that he should be sent for, 
when a third letter presented itself to his view, in the place where 
he had first thrown down the two others. It had arrived in the 
letter of the marquise, and he easily recognized the large childish 
scrawl of his son, the Duke du Maine. 

He was the eldest of their children.^ The king was fonder 
of him than of his legitimate son, the dauphin ; and if this pref- 
erence had not been the violation of a sacred law, it might be 
said to be just ; for the pupil of Mme. de Maintenon, at six years, 
was as agreeable and sprightly, as Bossuet’s at fourteen was the 
contrary. His character changed subsequently. Without ceas- 
ing to be an agreeable man, and, no offence to Saint-Simon, 
who detested him, an honorable man,f he was not all he had 

general runs less risk in being familiar with the common soldiers, than 
the inferior commanders. 

* They had liad four ; a son, dead young, the Duke du Maine, the Count 
du Vexin, and Mademoiselle de Nantes, afterwards Duehess de Bourbon. 

\ See his portrait in the memoirs of Mme. de Staal-Delannay. 


AND THE KING. 


195 


promised to be,* but at this time, the wit and vivacity of Henry 
IV. had revived in none of his descendants so strikingly as in 
this child. He was at this time at the waters of Bareges, f 
whither Mine, de Maintenon had taken him by order of the 
king and his physicians, for a somewhat serious infirmity his 
little impressions du voyage had already furnished him subjects 
for several letters, very probably reviewed by his governess, but 
in which enough things of his own were left to amuse his mother 
and the king extremely.§ It was one of these letters received 
this very day, that Madame de Montespan had judged proper to 
accompany hers. 

Here are some passages : 


“ Bareges, the 30th of March, 1675. 

“ I am going to write all the news of the inn to amuse thee, 
my dear little heart, and I shall write much better when I think 
that it is for you, Madame . 

* Tlie orders of the king aided probably to make him choose the re- 
tired life, which he finished by preferring to all others. It would not do 
for the son of Mine, de Montespan to eclipse the heir to the crown. 

f The influence of the king upon public opinion was never manifested 
with a more scandalous eclat than upon this occasion. The Duke da 
Maine received everywhere upon the road honors which certainly would 
not have been rendered to the dauphin travelling like him incognito. 
Bordeaux harangued him, the commandant of the citadel of Blaye saluteil 
him with the firing of cannon. Saint-Simon energetically abuses this tur- 
pitude, and with good reason ; he only omits one little fact, Avhich is, that 
this said governor of Blaye, who put Guyenne into commotion to receive 
“ this bastard,” was no less a person than the Duke de Saint-Simon, his 
father. 

\ The extreme weakness of one leg. He was never entirely cured of it. 

§ These letters were published two years afterwards, in a little vol- 
ume entitled, “ Miscellaneous works of an author of seven years.” The 
epistle dedicatory, signed by Madame de Maintenon, is by Racine. It is 
not easy to know how far the Duke du Maine was the author of this little 
book ; but he was certainly more so than Louis XIV. had been of atrans- 


196 


THE PREACHER 


“ Madame de Maintenon works every day for my learning, and 
she hopes very much she will succeed, and so does your darling, 
who will do his best to be clever, for he is dying to please the 
king and you. 

“ I have received the letter which you wrote yesterday to your 
dear little pet I will do all you tell me to, if it is only to please 
you, for I love 70U superlatively. I was enchanted, and I am 
yet with the little nod which the king gave me when I came 
away, but I was very discontented that thou didst not seem 
more sorry. Thou wert beautiful as an angel.”* 

Thus was explained the apparent indifference of Madame de 
Montespan. H^'r last word was not in her letter, but in that of 
her son, in the interesting prattle of this child, discontented as he 
said, to see her so cold at his departure, and who, without know- 
ing it, rendered her an immense service. These few lines, in fact, 
contained all that the most practised mind could have imagined 
most likely to move the king. In the first place, it is his son 
who writes, — a son whom he loves, a poor child whose birth he 
may indeed be reproached for, but whom no one in the world 
will reproach him for loving. He struggles then no longer ; he 
gives himself up to this with confidence ; he perceives not that 
the agreeable prattle of the son is but so many concealed argu- 
ments in favor of the mother. And in what does the child wish 

lation of CjBsar’s Commentaries, published in 1648, at the printing-office 
of the Louvre, by “ Louis Dieudonne, roy de France et de Navarre 
which, however, did not hinder him from passing his life without know- 
ing a word of Latin. It appears that the Duke du Maine took his title 
of author seriously, for eight years after, at the death of Corneille, he 
presented himself to fill this vacancy, and he was about to be unanimously 
elected, in spite of Jiis fifteen years, if the Duke de Montausier had not 
represented to the king how strange this election would be. In fact, 
however, the young prince was more worthy of it than many of the great 
lords who deigned to have themselves elected. 

* Literal. 


AND THE KING. 


197 


to employ his talents, — those talents come to him from her ? 
Ilis sole object is to please the king*. “ He is dying* to do so,” 
he says. He was enchanted, and still is, with “ the little nod” 
which the king gave him when he left. And then “ thou wert 
beautiful as an angel.” Ah ! the king knew that only too well, 
and this naive eulogium was worth more than the most eloquent 
arguments. 

Thus he was no longer so anxious to see Bossuet. However, 
little accustomed to waiting, he began to find that the prelate 
delayed very long. The usher of the cabinet came to say that 
he had been sought for everywhere, and that they did not know 
where to go for him. The king gave orders that he should be 
looked for again, and at last somebody was found who had re- 
cognized his chair at Bourdaloue’s door. A page ran thither, 
and the king was duly informed of it in order that he should 
be less impatient. 

At first he paid no attention to the fact that Bossuet was at 
Bourdaloue’s ; he was besides aware that they were friends. 
Gradually the thing seemed to him less natural. What could 
Bossuet have to do with the Jesuit at night, the evening before 
a day when the latter was to preach ? Louis XIV. was curious. 
Without ever ostensibly lowering himself to play the spy, or to 
have the part played for him, he was very fond of knowing all 
the little gossip of the court.* On this account he said that it 
was more trouble to him to govern his house than his kingdom. 
Only, because he saw into his house closely, and into his king- 
dom from afar ; great things were found more easy to conceal 
from him than little ones.f 

* “ These secret discoveries broke the necks of an infinity of people 
of all classes, without their ever having been able to discover the reason,” 
— Saint-Simon. 

f At the time of the terrible dearth in l'?09, “ everybody was implored 

17 * 


198 


THE PREACHER 


When Bos'suet at length entered ; “ You come from Father 
Bourdal one’s ?” he said, drily. 

Bossuet saw that something was suspected. In fact the king 
had guessed. It was not diflScult ; we have already seen Father 
La Chaise come to Bourdaloue, speaking without hesitation of 
the motive to which the nocturnal visit of the prelate was at- 
tributed. 

Bossuet evaded the question, and without even leaving the 
king time to finish his phrase, he said : “ I am sorry that your 
Majesty should have had the trouble to send so far for me.” 

“ And I am sorry that you should have had the trouble to 
go so far in my service.” 

Louis XIV. scarcely ever used raillery. He has been com- 
mended for this, and with justice, for it is a sort of treachery for 
a prince to make use of arms which propriety forbids to be turned 
against himself. These last words were ironical ; but there was 
more of sadness than banter in the tone. 

“ In your Majesty’s service ?” said Bossuet. 

“ In my service, — according to your opinion at least. Father 
Bourdaloue preaches to-morrow, does he not ?” 

“ God willing. Sire, he does.” 

“ Before me ?” 

“ He hopes to do so.” 

“ It is not certain, nevertheless.” 

“ How, sire — 

“ That depends upon what you shall tell me. Do you know 
his sermon?” 

“ The text and the first page.” 

“ It is a sermon on the Passion ?” 

“ Certainly, but what does your majesty wish to know ? I 

not to speak of it to the king, in order not to make him die of grief”— 
Mkmoirs of the Duchess of Orleans, mother of the regent. 


AND THE KING. 


199 


think my letter k frank enough to show you that I would not 
fear direct questions.” 

“Very well, here is one. What was your object in visiting 
Father Bourdaloue ?” 

“ Your majesty has said, in your se7'vice. The same kind of 
service to which all my proceedings to-day have been devoted. 
A service from which your majesty, I see, would willingly dis- 
pense me, but from which God would not dispense me.” 

“ Go on. What did you do there ?” 

“ I informed him of all — ” 

“ You dared ? — ” 

“ Does your majesty then imagine that I had miicli to tell 
him ! Ah ! sire, every one knows it. These walls have eyes 
for you as well as others. People may be silent, but they can- 
not help seeing.” 

The king appeared struck. He was not senseless enough to 
imagine that his irregularities were not perceived ; but he had 
never said to himself quite seriously, that they must be seen. 
Without going so far as to believe that a courtier’s soul was as 
unimpressionable as his countenance, he had habituated himself 
not to go beyond the exterior, and not to disturb himself as to 
what might be beneath that.^' 

He remained thoughtful an instant. Then said ; “You ad- 
vised him, then, not to forget me to-morrow ?” 

“For a long time, sire, he has remembered you daily in his 

* This, to a certain degree, was also the habit of the courtiers. The 
journal of Dangeau furnishes curious iustances of this. It is well known 
what tears and anger there were in the Orleans family, when the king 
declared his intention to unite one of the daughters of Madame de Mou- 
tespau to the Duke de Chartres. What says Daugeau? Two lines. “ The 
king has arranged with Monsieur, the marriage of his son with Made- 
moiselle de Blois and Monsieur the Duke de Chartres appears well 
pleased with it.” 


200 


THE PREACHER 


prayers, and he has prayed God to open your heart to his exhor* 
tations. Can you then find fault with my having demanded his 
assistance in this struggle between you and me, or rather between 
God and you ?” 

“ I am very willing to take my part of the sermon, but I do 
not wish that it should be made at me.” 

“ But, sire, if you took your part, would it be necessary to 
make it at you ? But no, you do take it; you only take it too 
much.” 

“ I do not comprehend you.” 

“ You take the eulogiums and leave all the rest. That these 
eulogiums are also your part, no one in France is more ready to 
acknowledge than I ; but they are the king's portion ; what you 
leave, is the man's portion. The first may ruin you ; it is only 
the second which can save you.” 

“ Let the first be left out then, if you will ; but I will not 
permit that the other be directed at me.” 

“ Have I said that it would be ? Ho you think that Father 
Bourdaloue is a man wanting in respect for you ? And without 
lacking in this myself, could I not advise him seriously to at- 
tempt the entrance of a heart, into whose depths you have per- 
mitted me to look ?” 

“Very good!” said the king, somewhat reassured; “but woe 
to whoever should attempt making a show of me ! You have 
sometimes compared me to Theodosius. Let no one seek to 
complete the resemblance by anything analogous to his public 
penitence 1 Thank God 1 I never ordered the massacre of the 
Thessalonians !” 

Alas 1 and the wars of the Palatinate ? And the horrors 
committed in Bretagne, for some slight indications of sedition ? 
And the war in Holland just ended ? And the dragooning about 
to .commence ? And, — but it was not the moment to point out 


AND THE KING. 


201 


to him that it was Theodosius who should have been offended at 
the comparison.'^ Besides, it is probable that Bossuet did not 
judge of these things quite as we do. When we see that Mine, 
de Sevigne, a wife and mother, (and such a wife ! such a moth- 
er !) laughingly relates the abominable cruelties of her friend the 
Duke de Chaulnes,f we comprehend that people did not consider 
peccadilloes of this kind of any great importance when the king 
did them, or had them done in his name. 

“ Be not uneasy,” replied Bossuet ; “ St. Ambrose will not be 
there to arrest your steps at the door of the chapel. Only come 
there, and I will be responsible for all that takes place. But you 
unhappily have time to put yourself on your guard against the 
efforts of the preacher — ” 

“ I will not do that.” 

“ That is to say, you do not intend to do it ; but your heart 
may again be stronger than you. And who knows if it is only 
your heart that you have to combat ? Will you permit me a 
question in my turn, sire ?” 

“ Say on.” 

“ From whom is that letter which I see there beside mine ?” 

The king averted his eyes. 

“ It appears that I am not mistaken,” resumed Bossuet. “ And 
your majesty has replied — ” 

* There is an account of the campaign of 16t3, written by Louis XIV. 
The concluding lines are as follows: I accordingly ffnish this year, 
having nothing whereioith to reproach nr elf, and believing that I have 
let no opportunity pass by, which was favorable to the extension and 
strengthening of the limits of my kingdom.” And again ; “ 1 have suc- 
ceeded, therefore I have notliing with which to reproach myself.” 

•}• “ A whole street has been driven away into banishment (at Rennes). 
Sixty of the citizens have been taken ; to-morrow the hanging begins. 
This province is a fine example for the others, — above all, to make them 
respect their governors and governesses, not to say hard things to them, 
and not to throw stones into their garden.” 


202 


THE PREACHER 


“ As yet nothing, Besides, the contents are not such as you 
appear to believe. Here, read it.” 

He was, in fact, somewhat surprised to find nothing more vehe- 
ment. “ It is better than I had hoped,” he said. “ Will it then 
be only your majesty with whom I have to struggle ?” 

“ What ! I have just promised all that you wish !” 

“Your majesty has promised to be present at the sermon, 
nothing more ; you consent to hear plead the cause of your own 
salvation, reserving to yourself the decision. Thus then is your 
fa^ placed in the power of another, at the mercy of the thousand 
circumstances which may infiuence the manner in which he en- 
deavors to touch you. If he be in an eloquent vein, you will 
perhaps hear him ; if he be not so, your heart will cry out vic- 
tory ! Ah, sire, confess that this is the true extent of your 
promise — ” 

He was right. The king but followed, like too many others, 
the deplorable mania of seeing in a preacher only an adversary, 
and in a sermon only a pleading. Now, this supposed adversary 
is the best of our friends ; and we have everything to gain in 
losing this suit. We know it; w^e confess it — and we continue 
nevertheless to regard as so much gain, all the little triumphs, 
real or supposed, which we succeed in carrying against the logic 
or the morals of the orator. “ How they fight, my brave Eng- 
lishmen !” cried James H. at the battle of the Hague. He forgot, 
poor king, that it was against him. What else than this do we 
do when we secretly approve the desperate struggle of our pas- 
sions against the truths which a preacher announces to us? 
When we are beaten, completely beaten, we submit with a good 
grace, and as if we had never dreamed of resisting ; but as long 
as resistance is possible, we resist. Thus proceeds the game. 
“If the plague were the stake, one would still wish to gain,” is a 
\ ulgar saying. It is the same around the pulpit ; in this serious 


AND THE KING. 


203 


and terrible game, where nothing less is at stake than the life or 
the death of souls. Not a hearer who does not know that it 
is his interest to lose ; not a hearer wlio does not secretly wish 
to gain. Thence comes that close attention often taken for 
piety, but which too often has no other motive than a desire to 
find the orator wrong ’* thence proceeds the marvellous aptitude 
to perceive the smallest errors of thought or style, and to convert 
them into self-defences ; thence, finally, the universal tendency to 
despise a whole discourse to which we could have found nothing to 
reply, for the sake of some sentences which may have displeased us. 

And what is to be concluded from these observations, if not 
that the preacher ought constantly to be on his guard, in order 
not to risk the danger of losing thus in a moment all the fruit 
of his discourse ? All his eftbrts must tend to diminish,f to de- 
stroy, if not the cause, (for God alone can do that,) at least the 
principal eftects of the unhappy tendency to look on him as an 
advocate who pleads, rather than a judge who pronounces in the 
name of the law. Since your hearer will not agree to have any 
judge beside himself, enter as it were into his way of thinking ; 
— put yourself out of sight ; appear to acknowledge his right to 
judge himself ; yet as his object in claiming this right is, in 
reality, but to have the power of not using it, grant it to him 
only on the condition that he makes use of it. Close every door 
to him ; force him to become his own accuser in the secret of his 
thoughts, and in the solitude of his remorse ; this is the true end, 
the true triumph of pulpit eloquence. The more you humble 
yourself to be only an instrument in the hand of God, the less 

* “ It is not to seek food that ye are come down to Egypt ; ye are spies ; 
to see the nakedness of the land ye are come.” — Massillon. Sermon on. 
Preaching. 

\ “ My discourse, — of which, perhaps, you think yourself the judges,— 
will judge you at the last day, aud will be a new burden upon you, as the 
prophets declare.” — Bossuet. Funeral oration of Anne of Gonzaga. 


204 


THE PREACHER 


your hearer will be tempted to believe himself dealing with a 
man, and to set himself up against you. You must bring him 
to feel himself in the sight of God, under the scrutiny of that 
eye from which nothing is hidden ; instead of remarking with a 
secret joy the weak portions of your discourse, he must himself 
be induced to lend a helping hand to sustain and strengthen 
them. A passion to be combated, is like a river to be shut in 
behind its embankments ; in vain you may have imprisoned it 
the whole length of its course ; if there remain one single spot 
where the embankment is interrupted, it is as if you had done 
nothing. 

And the passion of the king was seeking some crevice in the 
embankment within which he was forced to imprison himself, 
and Bossuet was quite right in saying that it would be the same 
thing the next day, if he were allowed time to collect his strength. 
When the king saw himself so well understood, he was silent. 

Yes, once more,” said Bossuet, “ this is the true extent of 
your promise. I hope that you wull have no opportunity to 
prove it to me to-morrow, and that Father Bourdaloue will 
leave you no way of escaping from the pressing consequences of 
his discourse, with a few criticisms ; but since you already know 
what these consequences are, how much more Christian and more 
admirable it would be to anticipate, and to do to-day what you 
know that God will demand from you to-morrow by his lips ! 
Do you remember the vexation you one day caused to a preacher 
who was to deliver a sermon before you ? Prevented by business, 
you did not come to the sermon, and the orator, whose discourse 
was filled with your praises, found himself forced only to recite 
fragments of it. Well! do the same thing to the preacher to- 
morrow ; go to hear him, but after having destroyed all founda- 
tion for the things which he intends to say to you. Take from 
this discourse the merit of appropriateness ; force the author to 


AND THE KING. 


205 


destroy the half of it. Ah he will not complain* of that! lie 
will bless God for it; and even if he were not to be told of it un- 
til the moment of entering the pulpit, it will not be difficult for 
him to replace the severe words which you have forced him to 
prepare, by thanksgivings, and accents of blessings and joy.” 

The king was going to yield. — “ Speak,” he said ; “ what 
ought I to do ?” 

“ Do not repeat this question, sire ; it frightens me. What 
good would it do for me to answer it ? Do not ask me anything 
more, — act. Let Mme. de Montespan quit Versailles ; and if you 
ask me afterwards what is to be done, — then will I gladly an- 
swer you, by shedding the balm of religion upon your wound.” 

“ Well I be it so,” replied the king, “ we will no longer recoil, 
— God will owe me the reward — ” 

He would have done better not to add these words. The only 
reasonable and Christian recompense of him who ceases to do 
evil, is to receive pardon for the evil he has done, and surely the 
price is great enough. But this error was only one of the forms 
of the systems of piety which the king had made for himself, and 
which no one had yet dared, or wished to hinder him from mak- 
ing. Believing himself bound to nothing,"^ or to scarcely any- 
thing, it was natural that he should regard the accomplishment 
of the commonest duties as meritorious ; and in the same man- 
ner that he accepted the most magnificent praises for the most 
insignificant labors of his business as king, so he expected the 
most magnificent recompenses for the least labor of his position 
as a man and a Christian. All the good that he did, or 
thought he did, was in his eyes as it were an act of con- 
descension, a kind of service rendered to God, and with which 
God could not fail to be gratified. Ah 1 how many people 

* “ God would look twice before he damned me,” said a certain La 
Tremonville, in his naive pride of birth 

18 


206 


THE PREACHER 


have nearly the same idea, although far enough from hav 
ing even as many reasons as a Louis XIV. for imagining that 
they can act towards God as one power to another ! It was: 
not until many years later that he began to comprehend that 
the law of repentance was perhaps made as well for him as for 
others. And yet it is doubtful whether, even on his death-bed, 
and at the moment when he made those noble confessions^ which 
history has registered, he had a correct idea of the duties of a sin- 
ner, and the conditions of divine mercy .f 

Bossuet did not set him right. 

He sat down, then, and with the feverish resolution df a man 
driven to the last extremity, he tore in two one of the letters, took 
the blank page and wrote. He repeated the words in a low tone 
as he wrote them. 

“ Mme. de Montespan — will resign — immediately,- — the super- 
intendence of the queen’s household. — She will quit the court — 
to-morrow morning — and will not return without orders. Our 
captain of the guards — is charged — to take in hand — ” A 
scratching was heard at the door.J — “ What is it 2” inquired the 
king without stopping. 

“A note, sire.” 

Bossuet took the note from the usher’s hands. It was again 
the handwriting of the marquise. 

“'Will your Majesty take my advice?” 

* These confessions are found in all accounts, with some few variations 
of words. ' The Cardinal de Henry, preceptor of Louis XV., had a copy 
of them hung at the head of his pupil’s bed. The young king was even 
made to learn them by heart, as well as the most beautiful passages of 
Petit Careme, but as to engraving them upon his heart, which is quite 
another thing, they troubled themselves but little about that, 

I He loved glory and religion, and he was prevented all his life from 
knowing either.” — Montesquieu. 

:j; It was the custom not to knock, but to scratch at the doors of royal 
apartments. Was this in order better to imitate dogs 2 


AND THE KING. 


207 


Well ?” 

“ Burn this note.” 

“ Without reading it?” 

“ Without reading it.” 

“ Monsieur de Condom, it is not our custom to condemn any 
cue unheard.” 

It was the king which returned. Besides the desire which he 
had to read this message, he was not sorry to recall to Bossuet, 
even while yielding, that he was still able not to yield if he chose. 

And he read with one glance, 

“ You are king, you regret me — and I go. When these lines 
are put into your hands, I shall no longer be at the chateau. 

“ Ath^nais.” 

Mme. de Montespan had at first counted with certainty upon 
the effect of her first letter. Coldness had appeared to her the 
best method of bringing the king back to her. In blending with 
her cause that of her son, she had considered the victory as 
doubly certain. Calm and almost gay, she had quietly waited 
for the king. She listened to every sound in the gallery ; she 
prepared to finish by tenderness, the work which she imagined 
commenced by her indifference. She had nearly been right in 
imagining this, as we have seen ; and it is certain that if she had 
only been able to allure the king into her presence, her object 
would have been secured. But he did not come. Half an hour, 
an hour passed ; nothing proclaimed the king’s approach. She 
finally sent.out some one on a voyage of discovery, and the only 
thing that she could hear was, that he had sent for Bossuet. 

Ten minutes after, she had set off, and her chariot was rapidly 
whirling her to Clagny.^ 

Had she had time, or presence of mind to study out the terms 

* This was a chateau which the king had given her at a short distance 
from Versailles. 


208 


THE PREACHER 


of her note, or had they flowed naturally from her pen? We 
cannot tell ; but these two lines signified a great deal, and the 
most refined art could not have arranged them better. “ You 
are king, you loeep ^ — and I go !” These words were said to Louis 
twenty years before, by a woman whom he loved with all the 
ardor of youth, — her whom he wished to make his queen ; the 
gentle and beautiful Mancini. Mme. de Montespan had not ven- 
tured to use word for word, this already historical phrase. “ You 
weep'^ would have been too much ; she had been obliged to re- 
strict herself to you regret me ; but the allusion existed none the 
less. The king was carried back twenty years ; an adulterous 
passion found itself placed, as it were, under the protection of 
the recollections of this pure and legitimate love. Besides this, 
it was the reversing, the revocation of her letter. After having 
told him in two pages that he had the power to send her away, 
she recalled to him by one line, that it was also in his power to 
retain her. In announcing her departure, she gave herself the 
air of a victim ; and finally, in signing herself Athenais, she well 
knew that Louis XIV. loved this name, that he thought it poet- 
ical, noble, perfectly in harmony with the style of beauty of her 
who bore it; it was as if a magic art had reproduced upon the 
paper all the beauties of this majestic countenance made to please 
the most majestic of kings. 

Thus the effect was immediate and irresistible. The king 
grew pale, and the pen fell from his hand. “ Gone !” he said, 
“ gone !” And although he endeavored to give these words only 
the intonation of surprise, it was easy to perceive beneath this 
quite another and a strong and deep impression. 

“Gone!” he repeated, passing his hand across his brow; and 
this time he no longer controlled himself ; his voice was changed ; 
his eyes filled with tears. “ Gone ! and I was just about to order 
her to go.” 


AND THE KING. 


209 


He was already blaming himself for this. If she had been 
there, he would have thrown himself at her feet ; if it had not 
been for Bossuet’s presence, he would have hurriedly sent after her, 
and an hour would not have passed before she triumphantly re- 
entered the palace from which she had just been exiled. 

Bossuet took the only position he could take — that of appear- 
ing neither sorry, nor even astonished; if not entering into the 
king’s grief, of treating it, in fact, as a simple and natural thing. 
After some words to that effect, he said to him, “ Render thanks 
to God ; has he not come to your aid ? Who knows whether 
you would have had the courage to send the order which you 
were just writing ? And if she had refused to obey it, who knows 
whether you would not have been very glad. God has approved 
of your intention ; he has shortened the trial. You spoke of 
reward ; is not this a beginning of it ? Scarcely have you put 
your hand to the work, when the half of your task is completed 
for you. What do I say ! the half ! It is almost the whole 1 
I can well understand that you are not yet so convinced of this 
as I am, but wait three days, and you will tell me whether I am 
not right.” 

The king scarcely listened ; from time to time he appeared 
not to be listening at all. The idea of a separation presented 
itself to him for the first time with all the seriousness of reality. 
So long as a sacrifice is not yet accomplished, and we do not yet 
know by experience how we shall support it, we cannot know 
either whether we are really decided to make it, or whether our 
resolution is not produced by a passing impulse. He who had 
just written so formal, so dry an order, believed himself dream- 
ing when he reflected that she was no longer at the chateau, that 
he should not see her in the evening, that he should not find her 
the next day. He did not, however, appear altogether insensible 
to the considerations of which Bossuet spoke. He confusedly 

18 * 


210 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


understood that it was better the thing should have happened in 
this way, and that the object of his temptation should have ab- 
ruptly quitted his door of herself; but as to thanking God for it, 
as for a mercy, and the commencement of a reward, it was an 
idea which he could neither have of himself, nor receive from 
any one else. 

Despairing, then, of going any further, and very happy be- 
sides to have got so far, Bossuet retired. Another reason for 
quitting the king as soon as possible, was that he feared his re- 
turn to the subject of the sermon. It was in effect somewhat to 
be feared, either that the king would refuse to go to the chapel 
the next day, or that he would exact the taking from the sermon 
all that could directly or remotely bear any relation to what was 
passing ; two things which were equally feared by Bossuet ; for 
he saw, on the one hand, that if the king once took it into his 
head not to hear the sermon, it would be impossible to make 
him give up the idea ; and on the other, that he would have 
more need than ever of the instructions of religion. 

It was with this idea that Bossuet returned to Bourdaloue, 
and related to him the scene which we have just described. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


BOUEDALOUE AND BOSSUET. DISTINGUISHING PECULIARITIES OF THE PROTESTANT 

PULPIT. PULPIT ELOQUENCE. 

Bossuet’s conclusion, then, was that nothing should be changed 
in the composition which he had just heard. Bourdaloue said 
neither yes nor no. Besides his embarrassment at finding him- 
self borrowing the plumes of another, he felt, and not without 
foundation, that his position in regard to the king was more and 
more critical. 

Bossuet ha\dng asked if Claude had staid long, and how they 
parted ; “ very pleasantly,” he said, charmed that the latter half 
of the question dispensed him from answering the first. “ He is 
a man of feeling and a man of talent.” 

“ I know that ; but — 

“ Well ?” 

“ He ought to have felt that all times are not equally fit — 

“ For giving lectures, you would say ?” 

“ Well yes. — A visit — a first visit — ” 

“ He apologized amply for that. Without M. de Fenelon. — 
By the way he looked at you very often, M. de Fenelon ! Many 
of his remarks seemed allusions — 

“ To what '” said Bossuet hastily. 

“ I do not Know to what.” 

“ We have been acquainted such a long time. However, you 
must confess to me that Monsieur Claude — 


212 


THE PREACHER 


“ Only spoke the truth. If it appeared harsh to us, so much 
the worse for us.” 

“ It is true that these ministers pique themselves upon saying 
it to everybody.” 

“ I wish that I had always deserved that reproach — 

“ I also. But you must acknowledge that it would be unjust 
to conclude from that, as the Protestants do, that our preaching 
is generally complaisant and feeble.” 

“ I certainly do believe that it is not the case with our cures, 
particularly our country cures. They, on the contrary, go too far 
in the other direction ; they cannot preach a sermon without damn- 
ing the whole world. But how should a stranger, or a Protestant 
of Paris, judge of Catholic preaching, if not from the discourses 
of the preachers of Paris and Versailles ? By what will we be 
judged in the future, if not by the few sermons which shall have 
been preserved, — by yours, by mine perhaps ? And then, if 
the judgment be unjust, if it be even said that our Church uses 
two weights and two measures, one for kings, the other for the 
people, — who will be responsible for this, if it be not our- 
selves ? I shudder when I think what might be said of me in 
one or two centuries, if I am judged from many a page with 
which the king and court have been most enchanted. This 
wretched peroration — ” 

“ But do not speak of it any more,” interrupted Bossuet. “ If 
you were wrong in writing, never has wrong been better repaired. 
And now permit me an observation. I do not say that you 
ought not to listen to Monsieur Claude because he is a Protestant ; 
but neither is this a reason why you should listen to him like an 
oracle. lie subdued you, in fact, completely. These people — ” 

“ These people have decidedly better notions than we in re- 
gard to the dignity of the pulpit.” 

“ They have not alwavs had them — ” 


AND THE KING. 


213 


“ Perhaps not, a hundred years ago ; hut had we them 
either ? I doubt whether anything is to be found in their his- 
tory comparable to the buffooneries of the orators of the League. 
In the midst of the commotion and bad taste of the time, they 
knew how to speak nobly.^ I know nothing more beautiful of 
this kind, than the famous harangue of their Theodore de Beze 
at the conference of Poissy. After the good sense of the public 
had condemned buffoonery, there were traces of it remaining 
among us at least forty years longer than among them. Our 
sermons were still all variegated with profane quotations, which 
they had completely banished from theirs, and the truth is, that 
this miserable practice never has been universal among their 
orators. In our Church, it is you alone who have completely 
freed the pulpit from them.” 

“ You also.” 

“ True, but it was after your example — and probably a little 
also, like yourself, after the example of the Protestants ; for I 
doubt not that the gravity of their eloquence has contributed, 
even without our being aware of it, to correct the faults of ours. 
The sermon occupying an impoi‘tant place in their worship, they 
have naturally been led to elevate its tone, and to give it the 
nobleness -and majesty of a real act of worship ; it is their 

* It is scarcely necessary to recall the fact that Luther in Germany, 
and Calvin in France, greatly contributed to establish the language. The 
C/iristia?i institutes of Calvin abounds in pages, which one might believe 
to have been written a century later. As to their polemics, we know 
very well that they were not of the most polished, — but was it inferior 
to the style of the time ? No. At its worst, it was on a level; and in 
many respects far above it. In our days, have not some gone so far as 
to accuse Protestantism of the superannuated style of the old Bibles of 
the 16th century ? If this were even a just accusation, it would still be 
somewhat awkward ; for truly if the Protestant psalms are as verse little 
worthy of Raci le, the Latin of the Church is still further from resembling 
that of Cicero 


214 


THE PREACHER 


mass. A minister who ascends the pulpit considers himself as 
performin T an office of no less gravity than we when we are 
about to approach the altar. It is not a more solemn act for 
us to open the tabernacle and take out the sacred vessels, than 
is for him the simple fact of opening his Bible and reading his 
text.” 

“ I can understand very well how much nobleness their ser- 
mons receive from this fact, but you do not say all. What has 
been the consequence of their so exalting the value of the ser- 
mon ? That they have their churches crowded with people for 
whom the sermon is the whole service. To go to the sermon has 
become with them equivalent to our vulgar to go to mass, and a 
great error is concealed beneath this expression.” 

“ Without doubt ; but it is said that far from partaking in 
this error, their ministers do all in their power to combat it. The 
reading of the Bible, the singing of the psalms, and above all, 
the prayers, form the chief part of the worship, and this they 
do not cease to repeat. They acknowledge, then, as we do, that 
the sermon is, and ought to be, but an accessory ; and if their 
hearers sometimes fall into the extreme of which you speak, 
I believe that ours are pretty generally in the contrary extreme. 
It cannot be denied ; preaching with us is in some sort a side 
dish. It is scarcely connected with the service ; and it only 
plays a part from time to time, thanks to the talent of some 
preacher.” 

“ Do you believe, then, that it would not be the same with them, 
and that the place of worship at Charenton, for instance, would 
always be equally full whether Monsieur Claude preached or 
not ?” 

“ I did not say that. The reputation of the minister will al- 
ways hav e an effect, at Charenton as at Paris, upon the number 
of tli e au lienee. What I meant to say was, that preaching with 


AND THE KING. 


215 


them, has a value of its own, a life of its own, an importance in- 
dependent of the talent of those who devote themselves to it; 
in short, that it is not, with them as with us, one day everything, 
and the next day nothing.” 

“ I understand you. But if the crowd gives itself up to the 
influence of these fluctuations, nothing hinders that we preach- 
ers should consider the pulpit as possessing a permanent import- 
ance and dignity. As for myself, I never ascend it without 
making every effort to feel properly the grandeur and sacredness 
of the oflSce I am about to perform.” 

“ You can do that better than I, not being given up to those 
wretched pre-occupations of the memory which give me a fever 
for an hour beforehand.” 

“ It was one of the chief reasons which induced me to adopt 
the practice of improvising. I had perceived that when I was 
going to deliver a memorized discourse, the moral and divine 
side of the sermon was always a little obscured in my eyes by 
the material and mechanical act of reciting a lesson. I may say, 
however, that the first very soon regained the ascendancy. Once 
in the pulpit, this puerile agitation was very soon replaced by 
that manly and noble excitement without which I cannot imagine 
an orator. Not only has this latter nothing which is derogatory 
to the dignity of the pulpit, but it is intimately connected with 
it ; it would only half exist without this feeling. I p ty those 
who boast of feeling no emotion whatever at the mc nent of 
preaching. It is doubtless a proof that they have talent and as- 
surance, two excellent things ; but it is also a proof that they 
lack a third still more important ; — the comprehension of their 
task ; they do not know what they are about to do.” 

“ Oh ! as for that,” said Bourdaloue, “ God knows that I have 
never preached without striving all I could, that it should not be 
lightly. What a moment is that, when, mounting the steps of 


216 


THE PREACHER 


the pulpit, you begin to command by your elevation, and youi 
glance, these multitudes of men, to whom you are going to speak 
of their God, their salvation, their eternal future ! For an hour 
I shall have them there, under my hand ; for an hour, they will 
be as it were, more mine than God’s. What an office ! But 
also what a responsibility ! These souls tow^ard which God per- 
mits and orders me to act in his name, I know well, that he will 
not demand an account of the result of my discourse to each one 
of them ; but that he will certainly one day ask if I have done 
all I could, if I have neglected nothing to banish from my dis- 
course, my habits, my whole life, everything which would have 
been of a nature to dishonor or even -sveaken my authority 
and whether this poor earthen vessel, from whence flowed the 
milk of the AVord, was at least as pure as the coarseness of the 
clay allowed. Oh ! when one reflects on all this, it is scarcely 
possible to mount up to the pulpit with a light heart and an un- 
ruffled brow. Happily strength comes to us at the moment of 
the combat. You know the story of the soldier, wdio, the day 
following an assault, clambered up the rock which he had been 
obliged to scale the day before, in the midst of the discharge of 
the enemy’s cannon. ‘ I cannot comprehend the thing,’ he said ; 
‘ it would take me an hour to get to the top ; and yesterday I 
seemed to have wings.’ ‘ I think so indeed,’ said another ; ‘ we were 
drawn on by pistol-shots.’ And so with the orator. This soldier 

* “ There are men so holy, that their very character is sufficient to per- 
suade. They appear, and the whole assembly which is to hear them is, 
as it were, already impressed and convinced by their presence. The dis- 
course which they deliver does the rest.” — L a Bruyehe. 

And yet, whatever influence may be produced by the holiness of the 
preacher’s life, — all is lost if he seems to count upon it, — if he makes the 
slightest allusion to it. Whatever right a man may have, according to 
a popular expression, to make himself the saint (f his sermon, he must 
take good care not do it. 


AND THE KING. 


217 


had perhaps trembled at the foot of the rock ; once the ascent com- 
menced, he had found wings. I have remarked that the veiy days 
Mdien I felt the most agitated in commencing, were those upon which 
I was sure to experience, very soon, the most courage and energy. 
Because — perhaps without knowing it, without articulating a 
word, I had raised to heaven one of hiose silent glances which 
are more eloquent than all the prayers ;'in the world, and that by 
having alarmed myself in regard to the immensity of my burden, 
I had arrived at the consoling conviction, that God would not 
leave me to support it alone. Then I was happy. I went on 
confidently ; I seemed to hear an echo of my feelings from the 
depths of all hearts — ” 

“ Yes, yes !” cried Bossuet, “ when the preacher feels that he 
is hearkened to, that his hearers yield, that their souls are touch- 
ed, — he experiences all the sentiments of a general who follows 
with his eye the progress of the battle, and sees it turning to his 
advantage. I said this one day to the Prince de Conde. Far 
from finding my comparison ambitious, he added that this 
kind of victory far surpassed the other, and that we ought 
to be prouder of one soul taken by assault, than of a battle 
gained.” 

“ We ought to be. The prince was right. It is unhappily 
not always there that the orator’s pride takes its source. In 
vain we may feel the spirituality and divinity of our office; it is 
extremely difficult for us to feel it enough to escape entirely from 
the seductions which they present in an external and human 
point of view. At Athens, Rome, Paris, in an assembly of the 
people, a senate, a church, no matter where. Pagan or Christian, 
when you adopt the profession of speaking in public, you are ex- 
posed to the temptations of vanity ; you become an orator. In 
spite of the best intentions and the greatest efforts, you will never 
be sure of giving yourself up so entirely to your audience that 

19 


2i8 


THE PKEACHER 


you forget self altogether. No one of the victories which an 
orator is called upon to achieve, is more rarely successful. Did 
Cicero forget himself when he rolled forth his magnificent peri- 
ods on the misfortunes of his country ? Did Demosthenes forget 
himself, when he delivered such vigorous sentences against 
Philip ? One might think so, from the rudeness of his style ; 
hut unluckily history is there ; and we know the labor and pol- 
ishing which these discourses cost him. And yet they were sin- 
cere, these two heroes of ancient eloquence; they loved their 
country ; they did not say a word which they did not feel ; yet 
vanity insinuated itself none the less beneath the flowers of the 
one, and the nervous syllogisms of the other. The danger is 
twofold to the Christian orator, because it is concealed, for the 
very nature of the ministry of the pulpit permits the inspirations 
of pride to be confounded with those of faith and zeal. Are you 
preaching to empty benches ; you will believe that you are only 
distressed because the church is neglected, and it will perhaps be 
in a great measure because you are neglected. Does it happen 
that you draw a crowd ? You will fancy that you rejoice only 
for God’s sake, and perhaps it will be still more for your own. 
And where shall we place the limit ? How shall we know ex- 
actly where ends the Christian joy we feel at having many hear- 
ers in order to be able to save many, and where commences the 
human pride of drawing more people to hear us, than some other, 
of playing a conspicuous part in a city, in a country ? And 
finally, on another hand, as to the results of preaching, and its 
real effects upon souls, how can we be certain of sincerely at- 
tributing to God all the glory of success, and to ourselves, our- 
selves alone, all the shame of failure ?” 

It would be somewhat diflScult to say how far these were Bos 
suet’s sentiments also. Doubtless he acknowledged their excel- 
lence, and desired to be penetrated by them, but was he! 


AND THE KING. 


219 


Various occurrences of his life prove that he was sometimes; 
various others prove that he was not always. God alone can 
decide questions of this sort. 

The hour was too far advanced for him to answer, in detail, 
the observations of Bourdaloue. 

“ I am not uneasy about you,” he said to him. “ You describe 
all these dangers too well to find them really terrible ; you feel 
too strongly the necessity of God’s help, ever to imagine to your- 
self, after a victory, that you have got on without it. Courage, 
then, and God grant that you may soon have a great success to 
attribute to him. — To-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow, or rather to-day, for listen, it strikes midnight.” 


CHAPTER XX. 


INFLUENCE OF THE PRIVATE CHARACTER OF THE PREACHER UPON HIS HEARERf 
MEMORIZINO. — EXTEMPORIZATION. 

“ How do you like him ?” inquired the Abbe de Fenelon of 
his uncle, as they left Bourdaloue’s residence. 

“I will not pronounce,” replied the marquis. “You were 
right in wishing to defer this visit. We were there at an un- 
fortunate moment.” 

“ I was just going to remark that to you. We have not really 
seen Father Bourdaloue ; the visit is yet to be made.” 

“ Is he then generally so different from what we have seen 
him ?” 

“ Different, no ; I do not know a more even character than 
his. You have seen the churchman, and a little also of the 
preacher to-day ; but you have not had opportunity to become 
acquainted with the agreeable man, the man of talent — ” 

“ And that is not what I wanted, either.” 

“ You do not quite understand me. I know that there are 
churchmen, who consider themselves as lacking nothing be- 
cause they have talent and are agreeable ; I should take good 
care not to commend such as those. it seems to me that 
it is possible to be agreeable with gravity, — and witty with de- 
cency. It is difficult, but it is possible, and of this M. Bourdaloue 
i? a proof. At table, for instance, he excels in keeping the guests 
breathlessly interested. He relates admirably ; he calls forth 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


221 


thought, — he causes lai ghter ; the hours fly. — Aucl if you sliould 
afterwards go over all he has said, you do not find a single word 
unworthy of a priest.” 

“ I believe you, — and still, — I have already a little less desire 
to see him again, and to associate with him. Laugh at my 
scruples if you will ; but it seems to me that if a man is really 
desirous to be edified by the sermons of any preacher, he should 
avoid seeing him elsewhere than in the pulpit. It is better that 
I should never hear a man who is to speak to me of God and 
my sa vation, speak of less serious things, that I should never 
hear him laugh and jest, even with decorum, and within bounds. 
I do not insist that laughing or jesting should be interdicted to 
him ; but if I cannot condemn him to unchanging gravity, I can 
at least condemn myself not to see him in those moments when 
he is not grave. In truth, it is one of the reasons which induced 
me to delay becoming acquainted with Father Bourdaloue. Not 
that I had any particular reason for thinking that in this in- 
stance to know the private man would spoil the preacher for 
me, but it seemed to me more prudent to leave untouched the 
illusions by which I had always seen him surrounded. — You will 
not go and tell him all that — I hope — ” 

“ Why — do you think he would be offended ? It is only a 
proof of your respect for religion. You are so anxious to honor 
it and to see its full power, that you do not wish to expose your- 
self to the liability of seeing the frailties of its ministers. You 
must however confess, it is fortunate that people are in general 
less scrupulous, and that the familiar intercourse which one may 
have had with a preacher out of the pulpit, is not necessarily an 
obstacle to the efficacy of his discourses. For myself, impossible 
as it would be for me to listen with pi’ofit to a preacher whom I 
had heard talk unbecomingly in private, it is still quite easy for 
me ao-ain to recog/ ize the man of God in him with whom I may 

19 * 


222 


THE PREACHER 


have jappened to jest in an innocent conversation. However, it 
is fortunate that there are some preacliei*s, as you would wish all to 
be — always grave, always serious ; but it is well also, that there 
are also those who are fitted to hold intercourse with the world.” 

“ Perhaps so ; but it seems to me that all those who meddle 
with the world go too far.” 

“ All ? you go too far there ; and a second time I beg you 
to except Monsieur Bourdaloue. But your observation is only 
too true ; if not for all, at least for many. We are but men, 
alas ! it is a difficult position. — Use and abuse are so nearly con- 
nected. Some can talk of nothing but religion ; others, on the 
pretext that it must not forever be dwelt upon, never talk of it 
at all ; but when they preach, they have the air of performing a 
task, — of going into the pulpit because the bell has rung, and 
they are paid for it. If it were necessary to decide without alter- 
native between these two classes of preachers, you may well think 
that I should not hesitate to decide for the first ; but as to ap- 
proving of them altogether, I cannot do that.” 

“ I see, indeed, that there must be a medium ; but wdiere is 
it to be placed ? And above all, how keep to this medium ?” 

“ It is not a thing which can be pointed out by rules. If a 
preacher should ask me about this, I should tell himj^Be a true 
Christian, and all will go right of itself. You will then have 
neither the puerile tone of piety of those who seem to think 
themselves always in the pulpit, nor the entirely worldly language 
of those men who know not the language of Christianity or the 
Bible ; you will neither seem to be continually preaching, or to 
be preaching only at certain hours. Does it follow that every- 
body will be satisfied with your conduct ? No,^ certainly not. 
You must expect to be accused of worldliness by some, and pre- 

* “ Tlie people of tlie world are so strange ; they can neither suffer 
our appi-obatiou nor our censures. If we wish to counsel them, they 


AND THE KING. 


223 


cision by others But go on your way. ^Two contradictory ac- 
cusations are aiTtays the most satisfactory; they indicate that 
you deserve neither the one nor the other.’ y 
^ “ Yes ; provided always that these two accusations fall upon 
the same subjec^or a preacher could with justice be accused of 
intolerance in his sermons, and worldliness in his conduct.” 

“ Yes ; and some unfortunately do not understand that. 
Forced to confess that habitually they have neither the gravi*'^ 
nor the piety which they should have, they look upon a sermo. 
as an opportunity for making up for this, for reinstating them- 
selves as it were. They seem to say, ‘ it will be seen whether 
the ideas, the doctrines, the language of religion are less familiar 
to me, than to any one else ; it will be seen if I do not know how 
to be severe — ’ And so they are severe, but awkwardly so ; 
they seem to do penance at the expense of their audience, who, 
indeed, are very little moved by this transient pieiy and borrow- 
ed severity ; and it is indeed fortunate if they do not draw from 
it inferences unfavorable to religion itself, and visit upon those 
preachers who are sincerely pious and severe, the discredit into 
which the others have fallen. This indeed, is the great evil, 
(^here are few people capable of looking at things in such a light 
that they will not allow the responsibility of our weaknesses to^ 
rest upon our religion. It is unjust, — absurd ; and yet so it is. 
If there is too g^-eat a difference between your language in the 
world, and your language in the pulpit, you will perhaps be lis- 
tened to as an orator; but as for real and salutary influence, you 
will have none, ^^ou must not seem, then, to possess two difter- 
ent characters, — nor must your sermon seem to be something out 
of the way and exceptional, something for which you gather to- 
gether all your strength, and metamorphose yourself. Your m- 


think it ridiculous; if we applaud them, they look upon us as persons 
inferior to our character .” — Persian letters. 


224 


THE PREACHER 


v' 


tering the pulpit must seem to you to be a simple and natural 
action, the necessary consequence of your every-day life ; you 
must, in one word, appear there as you do elsewhere, ennobled, 
but not changed. And I cannot help blaming certain little 
things, very innocent in themselves, but contrary to the spiiit 
which I should wish to see actuate our preachers. Nothing, for 
instance, is more painful to me than to hear a sermon spoken of 
as a labor. It is complained of, fretted about. The composition 
of it does not get on ; the memory is bad ; it is this thing or 
that thing. — A conscientious preacher is certainly justified in 
finding his task a heavy one ; let him lament this if he will, since 
lamentations bring relief ; but let it not be in the tone of a school- 
boy to whom his master has given a double task.” 

“ These complaints would not be so frequent, I think,” said M. 
de Fenelon, “ if preachers were permitted to read their discourses 
The exertion of the memory is always accompanied with a cer 
tain excitability, which easily turns into ill humor. A man' 
studying hard is not altogether at his ease.” 

“ Yes, — we have just seen the proof of that. But the remedy 
would be worse than the evil.” 

“ Why so ? I know people who read better than they recite.” 

“ So do I ; but there are a great many more who recite better 
than they read. And when I say better^ I do not mean more 
correctly, nor more agreeably ; I only mean that they make more 
impression, and that is my touchstone. And even admitting the 
two to be equally well done, do you count as nothing the destruc- 
tion of all oratorical illusion by the presence of a manuscript ? 
Y ou know my system ; I would have improvisation ; — and in de- 
fault of it, I would have the appearance of it. — And how could 
that be managed with a manuscript !” 

“ You exaggerate. If the reading be cold and monotonous, I 
admit that the unlucky manuscript will succeed in completing the 


AND THE KING. 


225 


destruction of its effect if it be energetic and feeling, we will 
very soon forget that it is reading; the heart once captivated, 
the eyes will not rest much longer. I experienced this five years 
ago, at a funeral service in honor of the Duchess of Orleans. Mon- 
sieur Mascaron had the same week delivered the eulogium of the 
Duke de Beaufort. That of the duchess also presenting itself, 
he had scarcely time to write, much less to commit it to memory. 
Well, the impression it made was not perceptibly lessened, and 
yet this discourse is not one of his best. But do you know what 
is. really to be deplored ? When a preacher who is reciting his 
sermon, has the misfortune to stop short,^ and be forced to recur 
to his manuscript, as has more than once happened to Father 
Bourdaloue. Oh ! then the whole charm is destroyed : it would 
be a thousand times better to omit a sentence, to cut short a pe- 
riod, or to repeat in other words what has already been said. 
B'it in a continued reading of the discourse — ” 

“ The illusion triumphs, it is true. And yet observe another 
thing. If it be ever permitted to read discourses, and it becomes 
an established usage, it is impossible that it should not have a 
bad effect upon the composition of sermons. The orator who 
writes intending to memorize, writes accordingly. He imagines 
himself reciting ; thus he searches the most striking forms, the 
most precise expressions ; he would not willingly give himself 
the trouble of learning by heart insignificant phrases, dragging 
sentences, or repetitions. Deprive him of this incitement ; it is 
Itke a spring only half wound up. For one orator who would 
let this make no difference, who would struggle conscientiously 

* A preacher excused himself to Louis XIV. for having involuntarily 
paused for a few seconds in several portions of his discourse. “ Ah well,” 
said the king, “ in a discourse so full of good things, one is glad to have 
some moments, from time to time, to arrange them in one’s head.” This 
compliment was much talked of but "-he orator would undoubtedly have 
liked better not to re» eive it. 


226 


THE PREACHER 


and with tale it against the temptation of writing more rapidly, 
you will find ten who will not resist it, and who will soon be 
contented with less trouble. You will have all the disadvantages 
of extemporization without its advantages. ‘ The pen,’ says 
Cicero , ‘is the best mistress of eloquence but he supposes this 
pen animated and excited by the prospect of action. You will 
tell me of some preacher whose discourses habitually recited, might 
be read, without apparently losing effect or appearing less fin- 
ished. Well, do you not suppose, that if this same preacher only 
wu-ote intending to read his sermons, they would be in danger of 
losing a great deal ? And if the custom becomes universal, if 
the country where this takes place does not still retain a sufficient 
number of preachers who recite, to counterbalance the influence 
of the others, the very art of preaching will in a short time be- 
come extremely modified. Look at England and Ilolland. 
There, in consequence of reading their sermons, they have fin- 
ished by not writing any more, for the discourses still called by 
this name, are scarcely anything but treatises upon doctrines and 
morals, or dry and lifeless dissertations ; the author does not 
seem at all to imagine that it might be well sometimes to have 
a little life in them. These preachers even care so little about 
leaving the least illusion, that one may hear them sometimes 
speak of their pen, their paper, exactly as if they were writing a 
letter. ‘ The pen drops from my hand, brethren !’ ‘ This,’ said 

M. de Saint-Evremond, who lived a long time in England, ‘ is 
one of the most vehement movements of eloquence which the 
English allow themselves. — Let these sermons be read or recited, 
it is all one. They lose nothing by being read ; neither do they 
gain anything by being recited.” 

“ It is not I who will be their champion,” said M. de Fenelon ; 
“ but they are perhaps better than the deafening style of certain 
sermons recited by heart.” 


AND THE KING. 


227 


‘‘ I will not deny, that the prospect of reciting, of g /ing free 
play to voice and gestures, may not contribute to leac astray a 
preacher naturally inclined to be bombastic. It is not to be de- 
nied that the custom of reading sermons, tends to make preach- 
ing always grave and dignified ; but is this guaranty against ex- 
cess of gesture, a sufficient compensation either for the dangerous 
facility of which I was just speaking, or for the detei ioration 
which cannot fail to result, — of thought, of style, 3f the details, 
and of the whole ? That is the question. After all this, — here 
is what I would like to give as the only rule. Let your dis- 
courses, I should say, be argumentative and quiet enough to be 
read without losing by it, and at the same time animated enough 
to bear a steady and energetic recitation.” 

“ It is a good rule, I believe ; but do you fancy that Father 
Bourdaloue has ever dreamed of it ?” 

“ And consequently has not always followed it, by a great deal, 
A great number of his sermons seem only written to be read, 
and his recitation is too often nothing more than a reading. 
But, even if he had always observed my rule, that would be no 
reason why I should think that it had always been present to his 
mind. The laws of eloquence, like those of poetry, are never 
better observed than by those who are not thinking of them. It 
is one of the highest characteristics of genius to observe rules, 
without knowing them, or at least without having endeavored to 
explain them to itself.” 

They talked on for a long time. M. de Fenelon was not se- 
riously in favor of the reading of sermons ; he was only less op- 
posed to it than his nephew, and this is in general the case with 
elderly persons. Beside the direct advantages which this method 
may have, it is not to be disputed that a preacher who is not en- 
dowed with a retentive memory, might employ much more profit- 
ably, both for his flock and himself, the long hours which he is 


228 


THE PREACHER 


obliged to spend in the memorizing of bis sermon. But the 
Abbe de Fenelon had fixed his attention upon loftier considera- 
tions, which did not permit him to stop at such as these ; he 
comprehended, that in this apparently insignificant question, were 
involved the highest interests of religious eloquence. 

He had also, already talked with Bossuet many times upon the 
subject, and it was for the sake of these considerations that the 
latter had written to Bourdaloue, counselling him to escape by 
extemporization from the mechanical fatigue of memorizing his 
sermons. This letter, as we have seen, was then in Fenelon ’s hands. 

To extemporize, if the word be taken literally, is to speak 
without preparation. In this point of view, there is no real ex- 
temporization save that which has been preceded by no especial 
labor. 

But it is not this, it will be understood, which Bossuet meant 
by extemporizing. It is certainly a very good thing that a 
preacher should be able to discourse ex abrupto, if not on all 
subjects, as the sophists boasted, at least on those of which his 
otfice summons him most frequently to speak ; but it would be 
better that he should be all his life incapable of speaking with- 
out preparation, than that he should abuse the facility which he 
might have acquired by habituating himself never to preach 
otherwise. 

Here is the great obstacle to pulpit extemporization ; and it is 
also the great argument of those who condemn it. Extemporiza- 
tion, they say, is a thing at once too difiicult and too easy. Too 
difficult, if it is attempted to give it the propriety and precision 
of a written discourse ; too easy, if the preacher only aims at 
talking on for an hour at a time without hesitation or appearance 
of embarrassment. This last talent, in fact, is no great thing.* 

“ If speech {la parole) is the noblest of all things, words (/ p paroles) 
are the most insignificant.” — S aint-Cyran. 


AND THE KING. 


229 


riie proof of this is, that minds of the lowest order have pos- 
sessed it in common with the most superior.^ Very of.^n, it is 
nothing more than one of the characteristics of mediocrity ; you 
have a great many ideas, because you take the first which pre- 
sent themselves ; you have plenty of words, because you do not 
fear to employ those which are feeble or improper ; or perhaps 
because, troubling yourself little about ideas, you have all the 
time to think of composing your phrases. 

And if it be thus at the bar of the tribune, what will it be in 
the pulpit ? With this latter, all subjects may be brought into 
connection. Whatever you begin to speak of, there are twenty 
more which bear on it ; twenty, consequently, into which it 
only depends upon yourself to plunge, as soon as the first appears 
exhausted. Thus freed from the salutary fear of coming to a 
sudden stop, you are at liberty to prepare yourself but slightly, 
and even at the end of a certain time not to make any prepara- 
tion at all. What is the consequence ? That the discourses of 
those preachers who extemporize, are made frequently but a col- 
lection of ideas, — beautiful, perhaps, if they are men of talent, 
edifying, if they are pious, accurate to a certain point, when each 
one is considered separately, but which considered logically, ought 
to be distributed over a great variety of subjects. Many come 
at last to have, as it were, but one single sermon, which they turn 
and alter in a hundred different ways ; and it is well if they do 
not finish by having only one idea, which will be all Christianity 
for them, which they will see everywhere, and put everywhere. 
They will be able to edify you once, perhaps even twice ; but as 
they always make variations often very little varied, on one and 

* And a multitude of gi-eat minds miglit be mentioned, who have never 
had it, nor desired to acquire it. Newton, wliile in Parliament, never 
spoke but once, and then in regard to a broken pane of glass, sitting near 
which he feai’ed would make him take cold. 

20 


230 


THE PREACHER 


the same theme, that is to say on two or three doctrines and two 
or three ideas, you will soon have enough of it. 

If some few escape from this injurious result by the sole force 
of their genius and of an astonishing copiousness, it is none the 
less evident that a conscientious labor is, and always will be, for 
the great majority of preachers, the only means of avoiding it. 
If, then, you are not firmly resolved never to extemporize, save in 
case of strict necessity, without having studied and meditated, 
do not begin it at all. If, after having begun, you are agreeably 
surprised to get along far more easily than you had hoped, mis- 
trust this first success ; impress it upon yourself, that the merest 
ciphers have met with the same, since it is a thing where no- 
thing but boldness is required. “ It is with extemporization,” 
says some one, “ as with the art of swimming ; whoever dares 
to swim, swims ; whoever dares to extemporize, extemporizes.” 
With this difference, however, tliat the more one swims, the 
better one swims ; while it. may happen that the more you ex- 
temporize the worse orator you will be. 

A very simple method of forcing yourself never to extemporize 
without sufficient preparation, is to write your sermons, as if they 
were to be memorized, and to preach them then, as if they had 
only been meditated, not written. But in this case, you must 
not go so far as to half learn them, for then, in spite of your 
self, you will run after fragments of sentences ; you will hesitate 
and drag ; it will be less an extemporization than an ill-learned 
lesson. This medium, then, is w >rth nothing ; commit the sermon 
thoroughly, or not at all. 

If there be some one idea which you are particularly desirous 
of expressing well, some argument which you are afraid of 
weakening, nothing need prevent you from committing that pas- 
sage in which it is contained ; only be careful not to change 
your tone in passing from extemporization to recitation. 


AND THE KING. 


231 


The exordium in particular might be committed. Af:. it is im- 
portant to make a good beginning, and as, on the other hand, 
inspiration does not always come at the commencement, you 
will not repent having taken measures to get over this. At all 
events, as the exordium requires particular care, it is not suffi- 
cient to arrange the principal idea only ; it is well also to pre- 
pare the principal details. 

As to the ideas which are to form the body of the discourse, if 
you are not sure enough of your memory, not to fear losing the 
chain of these, you might make a little memorandum of them, 
which you could place in such a manner as to be able to glance 
at it without stopping. But do not allow this paper to become 
a pillow for indolence ; neglect nothing that may obviate the 
necessity of your recurring to it. Besides, the very thought that 
you have this refuge, will contribute, by giving you more assu- 
rance, to make you do without it. 

If it be important to determine before-hand how you will 
commence each of the different divisions, it is no less so to know 
liow you will finish them. Without this, you will run the risk 
of shortening them, or, what is worse, stretching them out dis 
proportionately ; for an ill-prepared orator is like those people 
whose visits are interminable, because they do not know how to 
take leave and go away. 

Upon the whole, there is nothing really essential in all this, 
but the obligation of preparing one’s self, of seeking in -eltem* 
porization a means of preparing better, not of preparing more 
rapidly. This principle admitted, each preacher can and ought 
to be judge of the rules, the method of procedure, and the re- 
sources which suit him best. 


CHAPTER XXL 


THE LIVX, EIOQUENCE AND RElUTATION OF BOURDALOUE. MASSILLON.— 

ABBE MAURY. BRIDAINE. 

Although we have touched upon many points, historical and 
otliers, relating to Bourdaloue, it will still be permitted us to pause 
a moment in order to take a more general view of his life, repu- 
tation and works. 

As far as his life is concerned, this is soon accomplished. The 
date of his birth (1632), that of his death (1'704), those of the 
Lents or Advents when he had the honor to preach before the 
king, — these are all that we learn from biographers concerning 
him. There are scarcely any of the illustrious men of his time, 
save La Bruyerc, about whom history has been so sparing of de- 
tails. 

And, nevertheless, there was no man in France, not even ex- 
cepting the king, whose life was more open to view ; more public. 
But, as a preacher, his history is in his sermons ; as a confessor, 
it remained buried in the consciences of which he had the direc- 
tion. One day, xyhen he had passed his sixtieth year, he sud- 
denly became alarmed at having lived as yet only for others. His 
hair was growing white ; death, from which he had never averted 
his eyes, began to appear to him more distinctly. And then he 
wrote to the chief of his order for permission to give up preaching, 
and to go and hide in the country the remainder of a life, of which 
r*e trembled lest he had not yet profited enough for his salvation. 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


233 


A sublime selfishness, to which his superiors had the wise harsh- 
ness not to yield. If you have received the gift of sacred elo- 
quence, it is a proof that God would have you remain in the 
pulpit, and not elsewhere ; and if you be really called there by 
him, there it is, also, and not elsewhere, that you will best work 
out your own salvation. As to fatigue, do not speak of that. 
“ Have we not all eternity for our repose ?” said Arnauld. 

As to the reputation of Bourdaloue, whether as orator or writer, 
— the brilliancy which it has resumed in our days, is one sign of 
the return of the public taste, and of literature in particular, to 
solid and serious things. Now, this could not be the case in re- 
gard to the reputation of Bourdaloue, without thereby casting 
more or less reflection on that of Massillon. The latter for a long 
time had the misfortune, we will not say of being too much 
praised, but of being too openly preferred to his illustrious rival ; 
in proportion as people' were just towards the one, they became 
severe towards the other. “ The greatest glory of Bourdaloue,” 
said D’Alembert, “ is that the superiority of Massillon should be 
still a contested point.” Massillon’s greatest glory, we would say 
at the present time, is that he yet has the honor to be put on a 
footing with Bourdaloue. “ Oportet ilium crescere, me autem 
said the Jesuit, when, old, and broken down, he beheld 
the first successes of the young and brilliant orator ; and behold 
posterity reverses it. It is for you, Massillon, to decrease, and for 
you, Bourdaloue, to increase. 

Is this as it should be ? We think so. Not that we approve 
of those people who cannot praise one man without undervaluing 
another ; but in this case iliere is something more reasonable and 
better founded than the old mania for criticism, or rather the old 
mechanical necessity of the human heart. 

F-om continually hearing the style of Massillon commended, 

* “He shall increase, but I shall decrease.” — John iii, 20. 

20 ^ 


234 


THE PREACHER 


we have contracted the habit of considering him as nothing 
more thai an able artificer in style. From this cause, his immense 
reputation in the eighteenth century, a period when style was 
everything ; from this also, the loss of this reputation, which could 
not fail to take place in the nineteenth, when principles have re- 
sumed the precedence of form, and thought the precedence of style. 

It is scarcely necessary to say, that in expressing this latter 
fact, we do not intend in the least to plead the cause of the errors 
by whish it may have been accompanied. 

It is undoubtedly to be lamented that certain authors, in re- 
storing to thought her empire, have so far disregarded style, as 
to trample under foot the simplest rules of taste and grammar ; 
but it would also be deplorable if it were insisted upon that they 
should be judged by their faults alone, and that the good and 
admirable points of that system whose unskilful apostles they are, 
should be disregarded and disavowed. 

What was it they arrived at, after all ? At what do we all 
aim, at the present time ? All, I say ; for when an idea is that 
of the age, sooner or later everybody will adopt it ; there will be 
for awhile some quarrelling about words, but people will agree 
as to the ideas. 

What do we aim at ? It is that style should be nothing, in- 
dependently of thought, and that no one can attempt to make 
himself a reputation by his style alone ; — to live hy his style, as 
was formerly the expression. 

Not that style does not possess, and should not always possess 
an immense value. To-day as yesterday, as in the eighteenth, as 
in the seventeenth centuries, as at Rome and in Greece, it is the 
surest guaranty of the duration and glory of a book. But some- 
thing besides is requisite. The book must also possess another 
kind of value ; we only consent to admire its manner upon con- 
lition of being able to admire its nr.atter also. 


ANJ THE KING. 


235 


From this comes, we repeat, the actual discredit into which 
all those have now fallen who lived on their st}de. 

The eighteenth century, then, rendered Massillon a very poor 
service in placing him at the head of writers of this class ; but 
it appears that Massillon himself had desired this dangerous 
honor. In the consecration of the last twenty years of his life 
to the polishing and repolishing beneath the influence of a worn- 
out century, of the discourses which had gained him so many 
triumphs, he had the unfortunate skilfulness to metamorphose 
them gradually into literary compositions. The bishop of Cler- 
mont allowed himself to be captivated by the interested praises 
of the Encyclopedia, just then coming into notice. He thought 
it was only wisdom to conceal beneath flowers, that religious sap 
which alone makes a sermon live the life which it should live ; 
and he himself did not live, long enough to see what injury he 
had done to religion, to pulpit eloquence, and to himself. 

The principal author of Massillon’s reputation, — his reputation 
of the last century, that is, — with which his name has come 
down to us, is Voltaire. There are still many people who con- 
sider themselves as praising Massillon in recalling the fact, that 
the author of the Henriade boasted of always having upon his table 
a Massillon beside a Racine. Now, when Voltaire praises any 
one, — above all when he appears to take pleasure in doing so, 
you may be very sure of not having to go very far to discover 
his motive. Here, nothing can be more evident. In the first 
2ilace, he had to atone for his injustice towards Bossuet. He 
only adored Rac ne in order to have thus the right to abuse Cor- 
neille, and this t)0 was as good a method as any of making the 
honest public believe that he knew how to admire what was 
beautiful wherever he found it, — even in a sermon. Then Mas- 
sillon had also given evidence of a somewhat independent spirit, 
and although for this he had prudently waited until the old king 


236 


THE PREACHER 


slept with his fathers at St. Denis,* it was enough to gain him 
the favor of Voltaire and his disciples, delighted as they were to 
open to him the ranks of their army. They took possession of 
him on account of a few pages of some Lent serrnons, just as 
they had taken possession of Fenelon on account of Telemachus ; 
they made a philosopher of him in the new sense of the word. 
Nothing hut this is necessary to explain Voltaire’s enthusiasm, and 
the presence of the Lent sermons on his table. 

Although Massillon lived until 1742, he assuredly did not favor 
the singular part he was made to play, ary more than Fenelon, 
who died in 1714 ; and yet we cannot go so far as to consider 
him entirely innocent of the evil which has been done in his 
name. All that is most declamatory in the writings of the age, 
on the subjects of liberty, morals, the rights of the people, the 
crimes of kings ; all that the preachers of the eighteenth cen- 
tury have been most loudly accused of ; their cowardly com- 
plaisance towards the manners of the age, their altogether worldly 
morals, their care in avoiding ideas and even expressions which 
were too Christian,f — all this is in germ, and more than in 
germ in many portions of Lent sermons ; and this, we do not 
hesitate to affirm, was the principal cause, if not the only one^ 
of the noisy success of these discourses. A noisy success it was, 

* Some passages ia Lis sermons seem to prove the contrary, Among 
others, the second part of a discourse upon afflictions (2d Sunday in Ad- 
vent,) preached before the king, says the title-page. But as the misfor- 
tunes to which he alludes in this, ai*e subsequent to the year 1704, the 
period when he last preached at court, it is evident that these pretended 
boldnesses were added afterwards. 

f 7'he name of Christ, for example. It is asserted that a fashionable 
preacher, after having taken for his text these words of St, Paul, “ I will 
know nothing among you but Christ, and Christ crucitied,” managed not 
to repeat this name a single time. It was easy ; instead of speaking of 
devotion to the Saviour, he spoke of devotion in general, one of the fa- 
voi-ite themes of the theo-philanthropy of the day. 


AND THE KING. 


237 


most certainly. The young king before whom they had been 
preached, was made to learn them by heart ; the magistrate had 
them in his office ; the fine lady, upon her toilette table. They 
found themselves, to their astonishment, not only reading ser- 
mons. but charmed with them : “ And I am pious too !” they 
seemed to say to themselves ; and so the people of the world, 
raised to the very clouds him who all at once had so completely 
reconciled them with themselves. 

After that, what could young preachers do but enter upon this 
path which seemed to be the only one to be pursued in the 
future ? To the always flattering attraction of oratorical triumphs, 
was added that of a certain philosophical and political influence 
to be exercised upon this century of commotion. After the 
death of Massillon, and even before, the preacher became, — not the 
advocate of God against all, but that of the little against the 
great. He no longer even says the 'poor ; he says the oppressed ; 
what he claims for them is no longer aid, but their rights. — And 
not only does this language become universal, but people per- 
suade themselves that it is essentially that of the pulpit. The 
ideal of the Christian preacher is traced as it best may be after 
this system. — Everybody helps. — There is not much belief in 
God ; but that is no reason why people should think themselves 
less capable of saying what is and what ought to be pulpit elo- 
quence. “ The sacred author,” says Marmontel, “ combats the 
cupidity 'which drinks the hlood of nations, the luxury 'which 
quenches its thirst with their sweat , — the cruelty of the rich, which 
is never softened by the sight of misery, — the spirit of tyranny 
which esteems fortune but as a means of purchasing slaves — ^ 

* Here is the close of the tirade. “ It is for the preacher to seize the 
man thus perverted, as Hercules seized Autieus, — to make tliis colossus 
lose his footing, to hold him suspended over the abyss of the tomb and the 
future, and to stifle him with remorse.” If we could forget what pre- 


238 


THE PREACHER 


etc., ete” And this is tlie way in which they set about traves- 
tying Christian equality into social equality. Not a word of 
humility, repentance, or regeneration. Towards the year 1780, 
Jesus Christ was no longer designated save as the legislator of 
Christians ; in 1793, he was called friend of the human race^ 
— like Marat, — or still better, the first of the sans-culottes. This 
was logical. - 

It is to be remarked that one of the men who best described, 
after it was too late, the fallacies and dangers of this tendency, 
was one of those who in the second half of the century had con- 
tiibuted most to the perversion of preaching. A priest without 
belief, an abbe without morals, Maury had been one of the most 
brilliant representatives of that Christianity of the heaux-esprits^ 
which in the morning harangued in a church, and in the even- 
ing in the saloons of Helvetius, Holbach or Grimm. He also 
for a long time considered pulpit eloquence only as one of the 
battering-rams destined to attack inequality and abuses he 
also was ready to award the palm to whoever should cry the 
loudest against the cupidity which drinks the blood of nations, 
and the luxury which quenches its thirst with their sweat. Read 
the exordium said to be by Father Bridaine, the famous compo- 
sition which Maury holds up to us as a master-piece and which 
so many people still have the simplicity to consider as such. In 
a treatise on rhetoric, quote it as a model; and if you wish 
to exercise young people in declamation, make them learn it ; but 
not without warning them that if the page be beautiful, it is but 

cedes, and the totally false application which the author makes beforehand 
of this last idea, we might consider the image a fine one, and worthy of 
Boss net. 

* Corrected and re-written after the revolution, his Ennay on Pulpit- 
Eloquence finished by becoming a tolerably good book ; but in the first 
editions it might have been entitled “ Essay on the art of preaching with- 
out believing one’s self, or making any one else do so.” 


AND THE KING. 


239 


as the amplification of a rhetorician. There are things in it 
which may be Bridaine’s, but there are also many which can only 
•be Maury’s."^ And yet the latter cries, “ What a strain ! what 
simplicity ! Here, it seems to me, is the true model of apostol- 
ical eloquence ! — ” Encyclopedical eloquence, he should say.f 

And now let us congratulate Bourdaloue upon never having 
received eulogiums susceptible of so unfortunate a construction. 
With the exception of those passages which relate to the king, 
— passages, besides, which never form an integral part of the 
sermon, and seem only to be added in compliance with custom, 
— we must confess that no preacher has ever better seized the 
principle of Christian equality, or better clothed himself with it, 
or better remained in his true place. He does not say, like 
Bridaine ; “ Although rich and powerful, you are sinners.” No ; 
he Avould have thought that he was granting them too much, in 
supposing that they could have imagined the contrary. “ The 

* “ Until now, I have preached the judgments of the Most High, in 
straw-thatched temples ; I have preached penitence to the unfortunate 
who were destitute of bread ; I have announced to the good inhabitants 
of the country the most alarming truths of my religion. What have 
I done 1 Unhappy that I am ! I have saddened the poor ; I have carried 
terror to these simple and faith fd souls which I should have pitied and 
consoled. It is here, where our eyes rest upon the great only, upon the 
oppressors of suffering humanity, it is here alone, that I should have made 
the sacred word resound with all its thimders. The necessity of salva- 
tion, — the last judgment, — eternity, — these are the subjects which I should 
undoubtedly have reserved for you alone.” This last line would suffice to 
render dubious the authenticity of the whole. And let it be noticed, that 
the first idea of the passage, that which comprises oratorieally its princi- 
ple merit, is false. Before preaching in Paris, Bridaine had appeared in 
the pulpits of Lyons, Marseilles, Bordeaux, and many other cities, whose 
churches, so far as we know, are not straw-thatched (See life of Bridaine, 
by Abbe Cai’on.) 

f Some curious details in regard to this subject may be found in the 
Sx^pplement to Ecclesiastical Rhetoric, by Father Louis of Grenada. 


240 


THE PREACHER 


proof that you are sinners,” he seems to say, “ is that I am here, 
I who preach repentance unto you.” And he holds to this 
proof, and forces you to need no others. Never, not only in the 
pulpit, but in politics as well, in literature, in anything whatever, 
has a man more frankly availed himself of a conviction, and a 
mission. Now, the best manner of availing one’s self of these, 
is to go straight on, and never to talk about it. It is said that 
the principal Grandees of Spain never take their titles in public 
acts ; they would not even seem to suppose that any one in 
the world could be ignorant, or deny that they belonged to 
them. This, also, not from pride, but from a deep sentiment of 
his rights and his duty, is the feeling of the preacher who has 
true faith in religion and in the mission which he has received 
from her. You will not see him displaying his credentials ; but 
he will not be able to speak without your feeling that he has 
them, and in good form, not in his pocket, or in parchment, but 
in the very depths of his heart. With Bossuet and Bourdaloue 
especially, in the midst of the constant and majestic exercise of 
their pulpit rights and duties, you scarcely find here and there 
a word or two where the orator appears to have wished to draw 
attention to them ;• a hundred years later, when France believed 
in them no longer, and when the preachers themselves scarcely 
believed in them, it is not a few simple words which we find in 
regard to them, but deafening tirades ; one might think that 
they wished to hide by this noise the cracking asunder of the 
tottering pulpit, which they no longer dare to support. Ask 
the Abbe Poulle, for instance, what is a preacher ; he will re- 
ply, “ a minister of the living God, carried in the air as it were 
upon a cloud, from whence come lightning and thunder ;” and 
after six pages in this strain, the only thing which he will have 
succeeded in proving to you is, that he understands nothing of 


AND THE KING. 


241 


the true dignity or the true rights of the ministry whose exter- 
nals he imagines himself to possess."*" 

“ Bourdaloue,” says Voltaire, “is the first who has made us 
hear from the pulpit reasonings always eloquent.” It would be 
more correct, as has recently been observed,! to say eloquence 
always reasonable; and so much the more, because this new 
manner of presenting the idea would lessen the injustice and 
iiKjorrectness of this word the Jirst, against which we have already 
protested elsewhere. Always eloquent, indeed, Bossuet is not 
always rigorously reasonable, while Bourdaloue, if he is not al- 
ways eloquent, at least never ceases to be in accordance with the 
severest exactions of good sense and logic. 

But, this little question having been settled in passing, a 
graver one remains. We would speak of Bourdaloue considered 
as a writer, and more particularly of what concerns his style. 

For a long time friends and enemies were unanimous in re- 
fusing him all merit on this score. Friends and enemies were 
under a great mistake ; but this mistake had become a kind of 
axiom, and it is only a few years ago, that some independent 
minds dared to forsake it. 

Bourdaloue is neither elegant like Massillon, nor majestic like 
Bossuet, nor grave like the Pascal of “ The Thoughts,” nor witty 
like him of the “ Provincials,” nor concise like La Rochefoucauld, 
nor dry like Descartes, nor gracious like Fenelon. What then 

* The discourse from which this phrase is taken (Sermon on the tvord 
of God), is exceedingly curious from beginning to end, as a confirmation 
of what lias been said above. Mingled with the most beautiful pictures, 
come the most singular confessions in regard to the powerlessness, the 
faults, and the tricks of the preaching of the age. It is Hercules raising 
his club with a terrible air, and wai-ning you that it is made of paste- 
board. The complete history of preaching in the eighteenth century, 
would be a good commentary upon this sermon. 

f In the magazine called “ The Sower.” Three articles on Bourdaloue, 
signed Alex. Viuet. 


242 


THE PREACHER 


is lie ? He is himself; and the signet of his individuality^ as 
we say in these days, is profoundly impressed on every page, or 
we may rather say, on every line of his discourses. 

Now, it is no small thing to be individual in style. We say 
the language of Bossuet, the language of Pascal, and we are no 
less justified in saying, the language of Bourdaloue. 

This language is that of the end of the seventeenth century, a 
little less regular, occasionally, than it generally was towards 
1680, but reduced, so to speak, to its simplest and lowest ex- 
pression. Bourdaloue seems to have recourse to words only, be- 
cause it is impossible to do without them ; he does not seem to 
understand that any one could have an idea of employing more 
than are necessary. Language is in his eyes but the garment 
of thought, and not a luxurious garment, but a necessary one, in 
which the least amplitude would be superfluous. You will find 
in his writings entire pages, and series of pages, where not a 
single word could be found which would bear taking away. 

All that we have just said, is not praise, as may well be seen 
There is a medium between too ample a cloak and one which 
fits tight to the body; and Bourdaloue would certainly liav^ 
done better to spare his stuff less. But in spite of that, shall we 
blame him for it? No; and for two reasons. 

The first is, that he evidently makes no attempt to be what he 
is. No matter if his phrases are concise, it is easy to feel that he 
did not strive to make them so. It is his nature to be senten- 
tious, and the reader has no trouble to become so while reading. 

The second reason is, that Bourdaloue’s ideas are wonderfully 
adapted to this kind of style. Endeavor to clothe Bossuet’s ideas 
with the same ; it will be as if a painter should attempt to carve 
a chain of mountains into geometrical figures. Try to put a page 
of Massillon into this language ; you can do it, but it would all 
go into two phrases, perhaps into one. Bourdaloue’s ideas are 


AND THE KING. 


243 


encased in liis style like stones in a wall ; each one of them is at 
the same time straitened and at liberty; straitened because it 
cannot move, and at liberty notwithstanding, because it has all 
the room it needs. And it is the combination of these two ap- 
parently contradictory facts, that creates the particular sort of 
originality which we remark in his style. 

lie owes this originality also to the very absence of the orna- 
ment in which so many writers seek theirs. It would be diffi- 
cult to find a writer more sparing of figures and images. Save 
those which had already passed into the language, and which 
from constant employment were no longer considered as figures, 
there are many of his sermons in which none at all are to be 
found. If he finds one under his very pen, he scarcely points it 
out. If, perchance, he allows himself to unfold it, it is in half a 
dozen words ; he always remains within the bounds to which ho 
might go, without even then running the least risk in the world 
of being accused of amplification. 

Sparing of words and images, it is with thoughts alone 
that he builds ; accordingly, of these he consumes an enormous, 
an alarming number. His exordiums, for instance, seem the 
work of a novice, who understands nothing of the art of hus- 
banding his strength ; there are so many things in them, that you 
think it must necessarily be at the expense of the body of the 
sermon. Go on, — and you will see if this expenditure has left the 
least vacuum, the slightest impoverishment. Another experi- 
ment. After having read the plan of one of his sermons, take 
one of the points which he puts forth, and see how you would 
develop it. This development well fixed in your mind, read his, 
and you will see that in two or three pages he has used up all 
the provision of ideas which you had made for eight or ten. 

After this, if he avoids imagery, it is because lie distrusts it, 
and fears to mingle thin ears with this abundant and admirable 


244 


THE PREACHER 


harvest of rank and full ears. A vacuum ! he has a horror of it 
as nature of old : and this again accounts ff«i’ his so rarely ad- 
dressing himself to the passions, and for showing himself as 
sparing of feelings as of figures. Is it because he is wanting in 
feeling ? No, but he interdicts this to himself; he is fearful that 
it will leave no result behind. Is his subject, for instance, the 
suflerings of Christ ? He says, “ You have been touched and 
softened a hundred times by the sorrowful history of the Passion, 
and now I wish to instruct you. The pathetic and affecting dis- 
courses which you have heard, have often moved your hearts, 
but with a fruitless compassion, or at most a transient remorse. 
My design is to convince your reason^ and to tell you something 
more solid., which may in future serve as a foundation for all the 
feelings of piety which this mystery must inspire.”^ And that 
which he says of the affecting scenes of the Passion, he can say 
with still more reason of less pathetic subjects. Thus, this idea 
is found in almost all his exordiums,f and it is an engagement 
to which it is not difficult for him to be faithful. 

We will not return to what has been said upon this subject in 
the first pages of this work ; but we are now better^ able to an- 
swer one of the questions of the Marquis de Fenelon. 

“ How is his success to be accounted for ?” he had asked. 

It must be confessed, first, that the criticism of an established 
oratorical reputation is a very singular office. A man has been 
admired and applauded by all who had ears to hear him ; he 
has advanced from triumph to triumph ; he has stirred his age ; 
— and here we are cavilling at him, asking him why he did this, 
and why he did not do that ; boldly telling him all our little 

* Exordium of one of his sermons on the Passion, It is the sermon of 
1675 ; the one whose history we are now relating. 

f Even in his panegyrics, the most beautiful traits of virtue and piety 
cannot induce him to change his tone ; his object, he says, is not to praiso 
the saints, who have no need of it, but to give them successors. 


AND THE KING. 


245 


secrets which he had but to use, and all our great scruples in 
regard to faults which were, after all, only the children of his 
genius ! You gained the battle, oh Bouidaloue ! yet here are 
those who will tell you what you ought to have done to gain it. 

But after all, this is not so absurd as one might think. In 
spoken eloquence, the end justifies the means ; as soon as a 
preacher succeeds in drawing a crowd, his process is gained 
but in written eloquence, far from all the sensations of time, place, 
voice, and gesture, far from all that strikes and aftects, we are 
but critics. As soon as we have the time and the power to 
judge, we have from that very circumstance the right to do so, 
and whatever enthusiasm an orator may have excited, we are in 
nowise bound to take part in it, if we find no reason to do so. 

Well, we must confess that we were a long time unable to ex- 
plain to ourselves the popularity of Bourdaloue ; and if our 
philological researches had not been the occasion of our reading 
all or nearly the whole collection of his discourses, we would in all 
probability still be searching for the key to his success, or lather 
we would have long given up the search as vain. But this key 
once found, hesitation is no longer possible ; and instead of ask- 
ing why Bourdaloue succeeded, it is a great deal more natural to 
inquire how it would have been possible for him not to succeed 

Bourdaloue, then, was popular from the very excess of that 
which is generally most destructive to a preacher’s popularity. 
The greater part of those who fail, fail only because they reason 
too much ; but the more he reasoned, the more he was admlrcQ. 

It is because there are various kinds of popularity, and va- 
rious roads for reaching them. See, for instance, how it is with 

* “ The eloquence of Bourdaloue seems to have the impenetrable sol- 
idity and the irresistible impetus of a warlike column, which advances 
with slow tread, but whose order and momentum announce that all is 
going to give way before it.” — Marmontel. 

21 * 


246 


THE PREACHER 


sovereigns. One becomes popular from bis affability ; the na- 
tion is accustomed to look upon liim as a father ; another from 
his pride ; the nation associates itself with his pride ; one in 
economizing ; another in lavishing. It is the same with orators, 
— those sovereigns of the tribune or the pulpit. One succeeds 
because he comes down to the comprehension of every one ; an- 
other because people love to see him soaring into the most ele- 
vated regions ; this one because he can be listened to without 
eriort, without trouble ; that one, on the contrary, because he 
lea\es you not a moment’s repose. The latter is Bourdaloue. 
You like him because he presses you, fatigues you, conquers you, 
gives you scarce time to breathe. You follow him, in fine, as 
followed Napoleon those old soldiers who were always grumbling, 
and only marched the better for it. 

Once having taken up this style, he could not follow it by 
halves ; and just as a king, sometimes warlike and sometimes pa- 
cific, can be popular neither as pacific nor as warlike, so it is doubt- 
ful whether Bourdaloue would have been what he is, if he had 
believed himself occasionally obliged to change his style. 

And since we have mentioned Napoleon, his assuredly is 
a popular name even in the countries which he crushed. And 
that one which he crushed the most completely, France, why is 
she so proud of having had him for a ruler ? Because, while 
crushing her, he made her conscious of his power. The more 
of her blood he shed, the prouder was she when a new war came, 
of still having more to give him. Mutatis mutandis, we have 
Bourdaloue. The more he requires from us, the more, without 
explaining to ourselves the feeling, we thank him as it were, for 
having reckoned upon us ; and if, on the one hand, he humbles 
us by the severity of his arguments, on the other he exalts us 
and flatters us, so to speak, by forcing us ourselves to use oui 
reason to its utmost extent. The attention which he claims is 


AND THE KING. 


247 


like a tax upon our reason ; in vain we may find this tax a heavy 
one ; it is impossible not to be gratified that the orator has 
thought us rich enough to be able to pay it. 

It is’true that he stops there. “ Satisfied with exercising hu- 
man reason to its utmost, he seems to fear to disturb the imagi- 
nation and touch the heart,” says Dussault. Did he really fear 
to do this ? One is almost tempted to believe, that in this respect 
he had, if not an actual system, at least something more than a 
simple impulse of his character. Perhaps he thought it neces- 
sary to the dignity of the pulpit, that the preacher should never 
quit that reserve which in any other we should call coldness, but 
to describe which, we feel that we must find a word which seems 
less like a reproach. And what word shall it be ? As we find 
none to satisfy us, we like better to leave to each one the task of 
expressing as he will, that which he may have felt upon reading 
Bourdaloue. 

A man, who, without ever hastening his steps, or slackening 
them either, and who, his eye fixed upon his goal, passes through 
the midst of flowers without plucking them, without even look- 
ing at them, without appearing to be sensible of the perfume 
which they send forth, — certainly this man is not ardent in the 
same way as he who comes and goes, who runs, who flies, taking 
handsfull of flowers and showering them over those who follow 
him. And yet this man, apparently so cold, has a certain sort of 
ardor. He has his own peculiar energy ; and if it is not that of 
activity, it is that of perseverance and strength. One draws you 
on by means of his rapidity, the other by never stopping ; one 
takes possession of you by rendering all fatigue unnecessary, the 
other in forcing you to share his own. 

And here is the secret of Bourdaloue’s power. And are you 
any the further advanced for knowing it ? Alas ! the secret of 
a great orator or a great poet, is like the armor of an ancient 


‘^48 THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 

warrior, which one finds in the depths of a tomb. Here is the 
sword, — naught is needed but an arm which can manage it. 
Here is the helmet, — but where is the head strong enough jo 
wear, and large enough to fill it 2 


CHAPTER XXII. 


8E(X)XD COUNCIL OF THE PHILOSOPHERS. CLAUDE ON THE STUI Y OF THE SCRIP* 

TURES, AND THE CHOICE OF TEXTS. POETIC BEAUTY AND S.MPIJOITY OF THE 

BIBLE. 

The next day, then, about ten o’clock, all our company 
of the evening before, were in the Avenue of the Philosophers ; 
several other members of the Council had also just made their 
appearance ; we may notice especially the Abbe de Vares^ and 
the Abbe Flechier. It was not the usual hour of meeting ; but 
as the services of the day would detain everybody at chapel a 
great part of the afternoon, Bossuet had been begged to advance 
the time. He would have liked better to omit it ; after such an 
agitated night, and with the prospect of the painful scenes which 
were perhaps about to take place, a morning of repose would 
have been agreeable. — But they depended on him and he would 
not have been able to decline without giving his reasons. 

The hour, however, had passed, and he had not arrived. (We 
will see presently what w'as the cause of this delay.) In the ab- 
sence of the principal, several groups had been formed. Some re- 
sumed the conversation of the preceding evening upon preachers 
and sermons ; others already touched upon the subject for the 
day. This was, as may be remembered, the study of the four- 
teenth chapter of Isaiah. 

Among the latter, was the Abbe de Fenelon. He did not ap 
* A particular friend of Bossuet. 


250 


THE PREACHER 


pear to have re-read, or closely studied the text of the chapter, 
but his imagination had fed upon it. The noble images of the 
prophet had passed and re-passed before his eyes ; and there had 
remained a kind of calm and gentle exaltation, which was re- 
flected in all his words. They listened to him ; he listened to 
himself as well, and it was not himself probably who took the 
least pleasure in lis:ening. 

The Abbe Fleury passed by with two or three of his friends. 
He listened for a moment and resumed his walk. 

Some steps farther on, he said, 

“Are you not struck with the different coloring which the 
images and ideas of Scripture take, according to character, taste, 
and different kinds of talent ? Who would say that our friend 
Fenelon was speaking at this moment of the same chapter of 
which M. de Condom spoke to us yesterday And yet it is 
very probable that they understand it in fact in the same man- 
ner, and that if they were but to give a simple translation of it, 
they would only differ in a few words. ^It is one of the most 
beautiful prerogatives of the Bible, and according to my opinion, 
one of the strongest proofs of its divinity, that it thus furnishes 
to the most dissimilar minds, an equally wholesome and nour- 
ishing food.f ^True, this privilege is not so entirely peculiar to 
it, but that some few men can also claim it for the products of 
their genius. It is thus also that Homer, Virgil, Plato, and some 

* This difference is striking in their works, when they have some pas- 
sage of Scrij)ture to paraphrase, or even to translate. Bossuet excels in 
rendering tlie power and grandeur of the Prophets; Fenelon often 
weakens these a little, but he has not his equal in expressing the more 
gentle images of the Gospel. 

f “ A drop of water which is not sufficient for a man, will satisfy a bird. 
The sacred waters have the peculiai’ity of suiting themselves to each one. 
A lamb may walk through them, and at the same time they are deep 
enough for an elephant to swim in.” — D e Sacy. 


AND IHE KING. 


251 


few others, seem often to change their nature according to the 
nature of the minds which come to rejoice or learn from their 
enlightenment ; — but still it is not difficult to perceive the differ- 
ence existing between their works and those of the sacred writers. 
They reign over the imagination, the Bible over the soul ; they 
gain an influence over us by flattering us, the Bible by subduing 
us^ Even in those of its books where it only seems to address 
itself to the imagination, you feel yourself retained by something 
still more powerful and more searching. ^ I should say, that the 
influence of the profane poets is like a perfume which acts agree- 
ably on the senses, while that of the Bible is a perfume which 
penetrates into every pore, and that the man thus impregnated 
transmits it naturally to all he touches.,^^ 

“ It is for that reason,” added the Abbe de Cordemoi, “ that 
it is important for a minister thoroughly to know his Bible. 
But there are two ways of knowing it thoroughly. You see 
men who know the best of it wonderfully ; at the first word of 
any passage they will tell you without hesitating, the chapter, 
the verse, the page ; blind their eyes, and present them the book 
open at the page designed, and they will still put their finger on 
the verse for which you ask. Certainly there may be in this a 
profound respect, a profound love for the Bible ; but if so pro- 
digious an acquaintance with the letter does not prove that the 
spirit is wanting, neither is it a proof of their being deeply pene- 
trated by this spirit. And in fact it happens often enough. I 
have heard sermons full of passages from the Bible, which 
scarcely answered to the idea which I have of a discourse en- 
livened or inspired by Scripture. As for myself, I have read and 
re-read it a thousand times, and that too with attention, with 
pleasure, with happiness, and yet, when I am in need of a cer- 
tain passage, it is rare that I at once know where to find it. I 
remember the author and the book, and I do not think that I 


252 


THE PREACHER 


would attribut to St. Paul a word of St. John, or a verse of the 
Apocalypse to the Psalms ; but beyond that, my knowledge is 
at an end. I' have seen laymen astonished at my ignorance ; 
some have even appeared inclined to be scandalized at it. Is it 
my fault ? The more beautiful a verse, the less I think of look- 
ing at its number ; and far from expecting to remember it better 
afterwards, it seems to me, on the contrary, that the more I am 
attracted by the sense, the less I trouble myself about the jDlace 
of the words.” 

“ What is Monsieur de Cordemoi saying ?” asked the Marquis 
de Fenelon, taking his place among the little circle which had 
gathered around the Abbe. 

“ What I am saying ? You could say it perhaps better than 
I. Let us see ; I know that you have reflected much on all 
these subjects. How do you think that a preacher ought to 
study the Scriptures 

“ But, my dear Abbe, it would require a whole book to an- 
swer you ! Who could reply in a few words to such a question ?” 

“ In a few words I I did not add that condition. Reply as 
you will.” 

“ Yes, doubtless,” added many of those present ; “ is there any 
danger of our becoming weary in listening to Monsieur de Fene- 
lon «” 

“ You wish me to reply ? Well, then. But no, no ; it would 
be too singular to see me take Monsieur de Condom’s place. 
Stay, address yourselves to Monsieur — 

We are already acquainted with him whom the Marquis thus 
designated ; it was Claude ; but of all those present, there were 
but two who knew him ; — M. de Fenelon, who had thought it 
piquant to bring him, and his nephew, to whom he had made a 
sign to say nothing. A few instants before, there had been a 
third. But this person only knew him too well -for his honor 


AND THE KING. 


253 


and the peace of his conscience. He had disappeared. It was 
Pelisson. 

“ To me !” said Claude ; “ do you really mean this ? Would 
these gentlemen consent — ” 

They said neither yes nor no ; but opened their eyes widely 
with astonishment. It was certainly the first time that an un- 
known individual had appeared at the council. 

“ These gentlemen ?” said the Marquis ; “ oh ! these gentle- 
men always consent to hear what is good. Courage ; we wait 
upon you.” 

“ But who is it ?” asked the Abbe de Renaudot, in a low voice. 

“ Who am 1 ?” said Claude smiling, for he had heard the ques- 
tion ; “ it would perhaps surprise you very much to know, Mon- 
Heur. Do not insist. Do you grant me a hearing ?” 

“ My question was not at all in order to refuse it you. Speak, 
Monsieur, I beg.” 

“ Very well, then,” resumed the minister; “I will confess that 
I also have refiected much on the subject which occupies your 
attention ; and the conclusion at which I have arrived, will per- 
haps surprise you, — it is this; the best way of studying the 
Scriptures in view to preaching, is to study them as if you were 
not expecting to preach — 

There was a movement. 

“ I told you,” he continued, “ that my conclusion would aston- 
ish you ; it would have surprised me no less, twenty years ago. 
Let us understand each other. I do not mean, as you may well 
think, that the literal study of the Bible is to be interdicted to 
the preacher, any more than that of the laws and ordinances 
upon which he will be obliged to sustain himself in all his 
pleadings, is to be interdicted to the lawyer ; it is not even a 
thing which is left at his option ; it is a duty, which reason, 
conscience, interest, in fact everything, imposes on him. But the 

22 


254 


THE PREACHER 


Bible is not merely a collection of facts to be remembered, and 
of doctrines to be understood and impaited ; it is a perfect and 
connected whole ; it is the comprehensive envelope of one single 
fact — God manifesting himself to man ; of a single result — the 
Spirit of God taking possession of the heart of man in order to 
regenerate and save him. And this is the sense in which I said 
that the preacher should not study the Bible in view of preach- 
ing. He must place himself in relation to the Bible, not as a 
teacher, but as a disciple ; not as a man who is going to speak 
to others in order to reproach them for their faults, but as a sin- 
ner, who feels his own, and desires to feel them more and more ; 
in fine, not as a soldier who comes to seek for weapons, but as a 
criminal who comes to deliver himself up to the regenerating 
hand of grace. He will find these weapons for which he has no 
sought, only the better ; and after he shall himself have received 
some salutary wounds from them, he will only use them with the 
more strength and intelligence^ 

“ What I say of the principle of the thing, may be also said of 
the form, and of the influence which the Bible should exercise 
upon the preacher viewed as a writer. The reading of the Bible, 
with a view to its imitation, as one would imitate Horace and 
Virgil, would be a deplorable thing, and I confess I should have 
no great opinion of the Christianity of the man who took it in 


this way ; I should probably be soon obliged to class him among 
those people who curl and perf ume the prophets^ as M. de Balzac 
says.'^ I would have all imitation come of itself, would have it 
come from the heart, not the head ; I would not have it begin, 
therefore, until the preacher be so thoroughly familiarized with 
the style of the sacred books, that it inspires his own, but with- 
out intention or effort, almost without his perceiving it. Indeed 
it is easy enough to discern if this be the case with the preacher, 


* In hig Christian Socrates: Vllth discourse. 


AND THE KING. 


255 


or whether he only imitates the language of the Bible because 
he thinks himself obliged to do so, and expects such and such 
an effect from it. As for myself, I am never deceived by it. Not 
that I would not be puzzled enough, sometimes, to tell the grounds 
of my conviction ; it is a sort of instinct, which leads me to dis- 
tinguish between two discourses at first sight equally scriptural, 
which of them is an imitation coming from the heart, aiid which 
the result, of calculation. In the former it is constant ; even 
where it is not perceptible for the moment in the expressions or 
the figures, it is in the progress of the ideas, the tone, in the 
whole being of the orator. In the other there are, as it were, 
two styles. There is the language of God, it is true, but it is 
not amalgamated with the language of man ; it is only mingled 
with it, and often clumsily enough and I will even add, for 
the contrast is complete, that even in the passages where the 
imitation seems to have been natural, still there is always in 
the tone, in the general aspect of it, that something which be- 
trays the man little affected by his own words. It is an able 
counterfeit ; the counterfeiter is perhaps in earnest, but it is 
still a counterfeit.” 

The whole council had by this time gathered around Claude, 
and surprise began to give place to interest. M. de Fenelon 
appeared delighted with the attention bestowed upon his protege. 

“ Before quitting this subject,” he said to Claude, “ I hope 
that you will say something to us in regard to the choice of 
texts.” 

“ I was about to come to that,” said the minister, “ for this 
question closely concerns, much more closely than many preach- 
ers think, the position which the Bible should hold in Christian 

* “ If Scripture be quoted but tardily, for form’s sake, or for orna- 
meut then it is no longer the word of God, but the word and invention 
of man.” — Fenelon. 


256 


THE PREACHER 


eloquence. There are sermons where the author only seems co 
havp. put a text because it is the custom to do so. He scarce y 
points it out before he abandons it ; he does not make it tl e 
subject, but simply the occasion of his discourse. This abuft ' 
has great disadvantages. Besides that of making the word o" 
God play a secondary part, and almost an unimportant one,* an 
other is that of giving access to the Christian pulpit to mora 
and philosophical subjects, which are not fitted for it, and whicl 
no passage in the Bible could possibly introduce, if the sense ol 
the words were more closely regarded. It is true that the con 
trary excess is still more frequent.f A preacher often imagines 
himself doing great things, in adroitly bringing in the text, or 
some expressions of the text, at the end of each part, and of 
each somewhat lengthy and energetic period. It is sometimes 
very beautiful; but sometimes very pitiful and childish. Others 
imagine that they cannot better give a high idea of the Bible 
than by making to spring from one verse, or the half of a verse, 
a crowd of ideas, which no ordinary person perceives there, and 
which the preacher himself undoubtedly did not see, until he set 
to work to make a sermon from the verse. Thus, from a per- 
fectly simple phrase, sometimes issue plans of a singular compli- 
cation, and of a regularity which would be admirable if it were 
not absurd. It is not only in each portion of the phrase that 
they would find an extended signification ; not only in each word ; 
the place which it occupies, the importance which it possesses 
relatively to the words preceding or following it, — a shade, a 

* A chapter in the Bible is not a block of marble to be carved ; 

“ Shall it be a god, a table, or a basin ?” 

The plan is all traced ; the statue all completed. It only remains to 
point out and to animate it. 

f It has become less frequent since this period, particularly among 
*^rote8tant preachers. 


AND T HE KING. 


257 


fragment, a nothing, all furnish material for so many divisions 
to the orator who has a mania for them. It is fortunate, too, 
if these shades upon which he erects his scaffolding, at least exist 
in the original, and do not exclusively belong to the Latin or 
French translation which he has employed.'^ It may doubtless 
liappen that a word of no importance in itself, acquires in cer- 
tain cases a great theological importance; but it is not skilful 
in an oratorical point of view, nor above all in a Christian, to bring 
even just or good ideas into the pulpit when they can only be 
shown to be based upon such slender foundations. All this is 
head work ;f and that, in the pulpit, is like a miniature hung too 
high. Even those who are the best judges, when near by, can- 
not tell you its merit at such a distance. 

“ With still more reason must we condemn those who abuse 
their text so far as to draw from it, not only all that can by any 
possibility be there, but also what is evidently not in it. ^ An in- 
telligent auditor should always be able to judge in some degree, 
upon hearing the text, of what you are going to talk to him^ 
To deceive him, and speak of things of which these words 
have not awakened the remotest idea in his mind, is to play him 
a trick little worthy of you, and above all, little worthy of the pul- 
pit.f As for allegories, I do not speak of them. The best of 

* Erasmus, in his Ealogium of folly ^ feigns greatly to admire a certain 
preacher, who, resolving the Latin verb evitare, iuto e, out of, vita, life, 
concludes from this that the expression of Saint Paul, evita eos, applied 
to heretics, ought not to be rendered, avoid them, but kill them. It is prob- 
ably a fable, but the satire is a good one. 

I “ d’liat which goes from the head, dies in the head ; it never reaches 
the heart.”— F knelon. 

^ The custom of taking their text from the Gospel fo: the day, often 
leads the Roman Catholic preachers to singular exhibitions of ingenuity. 
In hearing these words, “ They saw Moses and Elias talking with him,” 
would any one imagine that the sermon was going to treat of the respect 
which the great owe to religion ? “ Moses and Elias,” said the orator, “ are 

22 * 


258 


IHE PREACHER 


them always have the great disadvantage of opening the door 
to innumerable conceits, and the best will never do as much good 
as the bad do harm.* 

^ “ I would say, then, of the sermon in relation to its text, that 
L which Cicero said of the exordium in relation to the subject in 
general ; '■Effioruisse penitus videatur ; let it spring from it as 
the stem of a flower springs from the centre and depth of the 
plant.’ It is, in fact, to be remarked, that flowers with stalks, 

the two greatest personages of the ancient law ; now in descending be- 
side the Saviour they rendered him homage ; thus the great owe respect 
to religion.” The author of this fine syllogism is Massillon. Apropos of 
the Samaritan pouring oil and wine into the wounds of the poor Jew, 
Regnis managed to preach on fraternal correction. Sometimes the text 
is but a fragment of a narrative. The same Regnis, for instance, made a 
sermon on death, taking these words for his text ; “ A dead man being 
carried to his grave.” The same oddities ai*e found in some preachers of 
the reformed churches of Germany. (See Reinhardt’s Letters on Preach- 

* As a happy example of allegory, may be cited a sermon of Massillon 
on Impurity, the text of which is t he parable of the prodigal son. The pa- 
ternal mansion represents the primitive purity which the youth is about 
to abandon. His possessions, which he carries with him, — his health, which 
he is going to lose ; the swine which he keeps, the image of his degrada- 
tion, tfec. But Claude was right in asserting that this is a dangerous 
path ; a thousand examples of it might be alleged. Massillon himself is 
far from always being so happy. In his sermon on Conjession, he takes 
as his text these words of the apostle John, “ There was in that place a 
crowd of lame and blind, and impotent folk and he pretends that the 
blind represent those who cannot see their own faults ; the lame, those 
who do not confess them sincerely ; the impotent, those who are not re- 
pentant. We give a still more curious specimen. One of the mis- 
sionaries sent by Louis XIV. to accompany his driigoons into the south- 
ern provinces, took one day for his text the parable of the talents. The 
talents, according to him, were the companies of dragoons put at the dis- 
posal of the bishops by the king. It was for the bishops to make a good 
use of them ; and woe to the former if they allowed the latter to lie hid- 
den in the barracks without causing them to labor for the glory of God 
anil the destruction of heresy ! 


AND THE KING 


259 


those which grow out from the very roots, are the richest which 
nature produce^^ A sermon like those of which I spoke, is like 
a tree all covered with tiny flowers ; — a sermon as I would wish 
it, is like one of those beautiful and vigorous African plants, 
which have only one flower, or cluster of flowers, but whose ma- 
jestic unity strikes and impresses you. 

“And now I come back,” continued Claude, “ to the subject 
from which I set out. If the textual study of the sacred books 
is not constantly accompanied by thoughtful considerations of 
their tendency and the spirit of the teachings which they give 
us — you may have scholars; but orators you will not have. 
Skilful in explaining from the desk of the school^ the smallest as 
well as the greatest difficulties of the scriptures, they will remain 
strangers to the art of impressing and touching from the pulpit, 
an assembly which is more in need of impressions than instruc- 
tions. 

“ I would not wish, however, to embrace in this censure all the 
preacheis to whom this remark may apply. There are among 
them those who feel very well what their failing is, and are the 
first to lament it. They may read and meditate upon the Bible, 
— they love it, they appreciate it, — but they have not the gift of 
making it loved. — Upon reading a beautiful passage, their imagi- 
nation is excited, — their soul is troubled ; it seems to Them im- 
possible that they should not be eloquent ; and as soon as they 
begin to write, they are cold. Perhaps they set wrongly to work ; 
perhaps, also, and this is extremely probable, they lack some one 
of the 'qualities necessary that the study, even conscientious and 
profound, of the sacred books, should enable them to make them 
relished by others. Alas ! what can we do but labor and pray ? 
We labor, we plant ; God alone gives the increas^ One may 
reach by a step the centre of the sanctuary ; another may for 
a long time seek the door, and then scarcely be able to get be- 


260 


THE PREACHER 


yond the threshold. Let us submit ; and if some possess happy 
faculties of mind and soul, which enable them better than 


others to transfer the life and coloring of the sacred books to 


their writings, — they ought no more to be proud of it, than 


ought the artist upon whom God bestows the gift, of feeling and 


representing better than another the grand scenes of nature. 
‘ What have we, that we have not received V said St. Paul. 
A celebrated writer of the twelfth century — ” 

“ St. Bernard ?” inquired M. de Fenelon. 

“ Yes, the Abbe de Clair vaux,” replied Claude, who did not 
wish to say Bernard^ short, — and who did not wish, either, to 
say Saint Bernard, after Saint Paul. “ This illustrious doctor 
compared God, in relation with man, to a writer or a painter, 
who guides the hand of a little child, and only asks one thing 
of it, — that it will not move its hand, but will allow it to be 
guided. Here is the image of the evangelical preacher.” 

“ That reminds me,” said the marquis, “ of a beautiful idea of 



Monsieur 


should consider ourselves,’ he 


wrote to his friend Le Maistre, ‘ as the instrument, or the pen of 
God, neither exalting ourselves if we advance, — nor growing dis- 
couraged if we do not succeed^^ 


Saint-Cyran was not in the best odor in the Council. They 
thought the idea a beautiful one, but would have preferred its 
coming from a different source. 

“ These, then,” Claude continued, “ are the conditions upon 


which a preacher may give a truly scriptural coloring and style 


to his discourse. As to the different qualities in detail upon 
which the study and imitation of Scripture will set its seal, I have 
made the following observations : 


“ The characteristic which has always the most impressed me in 
the style of the Bible, as, if not the most striking at least the 
most constant, — is its simplicity. I do not speak of the simpli- 


AND THE KING. 


261 


city of its narrative ; everybody agrees that nowhere is to be 
found more artlessness, more grace ; — in regard to these qualities, 
the same commendation applies to the whole Bible.' But look, 
in particular, at the instructions of the Saviour. All those ideas, 
which so many profound thinkers, when they happened accident- 
Jilly to stumble upon one, could not express save in learned terms, 
in pompous phrases, are expressed by the Gospel with an ease, a 
naturalness, a candor, which it is impossible sufficiently to ad- 
mire. Thus, even those things which it was allowed to man to 
discover and comprehend, never became really popular until after 
Jesus Christ. Others, which the genius of man had sought for 
in vain, do not appear more difficult or more profound ; this is 
indeed one of the reasons why revelation has sometimes been 
doubted. The simplicity of manner so well concealed the divin- 
ity of the matter, that people easily deceived themselves into 
thinking that they were equally capable of saying and conceiving 
as much. 

“ However that may be, when called to give these grand ideas as 
the foundation for all his discourses, it is in the Bible that the 
preacher will best learn to adapt them to the capacity of all. I 
do not only mean by this, that he shall express them so as to be 
understood by all his hearers ; I mean to say that he should be 
simple even with those whose more cultivated intelligence might 
seem to authorize him not to be so ; Jesus Christ was no less so 
with the doctors than with the people. 

“ But the most wonderful thing about the simplicity of the 
Scriptures, is the ease with which it allies itself with the sub- 
limest ideas, the most magnificent images. And here, again, is 
something by which you will recognize the man who is truly in- 
spired by them. He will be grand without intending it, vigor- 
ous without effort; he will affect the imagination without fa- 


262 


THE PREACHER 


tiguing the mind. The hearer will he astonished to find himself 
so high, and to have had so little difficulty in mounting^^^/* 

“ And finally, it is still to the Bible that you owe your attain- 
ment of this very elevation. Let us not exaggerate here. We 
will not pretend that every species of poetry is in the Bible, as 
the Mahometans declare that the Koran contains everything. I 
will not say, then, that the imagination of the preacher cannot go 
beyond the boundaries within which that of the sacred writers is 
enclosed ; new ideas, new customs, new sentiments to which he 
cannot remain a stranger without closing to himself many soui-ces 
of infiuence, call him, and will always call him to seek new ex- 
pressions, and employ new images. But, the more we are dis- 
posed to grant him this right, the more we should fear lest he 
may abuse it.^ Then let the poetry of the Scriptures be always 
near, to regulate the flight of his own, to ennoble his conceptions, 
to put upon his human inspirations the seal of an inspiration 
superior and divine. Ko one is truly a poet in the pulpit if he 
be not so through the Bible and for the Bible. ‘ David is our 
Simonides,’ said one of the fathers, ‘ our Pindar, our Alceus, 
even our Horace.’f You are free to employ expressions and 
figures which are not in the sacred authors ; but they must al- 
ways bear the traces, or as it were a reflection of what is seen in 
them it must be possible for the hearer to say, ‘ if these images 
are not in the Bible they might be there^ 

“ Now, for this, it is not sufficient that the Bible should be one 
of the sources whither you go to seek poetry ; it must be and must 
ever remain the principal source. You should not consider it as 


* This fear was rarely realized ia the time of Claude. W e wish we 
could say the same of the present day. Unhappily it is not in romances 
alone, and in verse, that our century often takes religiosity for religion, 
and sentimentality for sentiment. 

f “ David, Simonides noster, Pindarus, Alcaeus, Flaccm quoque.” — Je- 
rome. Commentary on the Psalms. 


AI^D THE KING. 


263 


a kind of brook coming to mingle its waters with those of a great 
river. It is the Bible which is the great river ; all other senti- 
ments, all other sources of inspiration, should be in the eyes of 
the preacher but streamlets which come to purify and lose them- 
selves in its waters. The streamlets which flow into a river con- 
tribute doubtless to augment its magnitude ; but the river keeps 
none the less its name and its glory. 

/ “ As to the poetic worth of the Bible, even humanly considered, 
and altogether in a literary point of view, if there were any soul 
cold enough to reipiire proof of it, I do not believe such a soul 
could ever succeed in feeling it. But where is such an one to 
be found ? I have never met with one. I have seen many peo- 
ple make light of the Bible because they did not know it ; but I 
have seen none who despised it after having read it ; and I know 
more than one infidel, who in turning over its leaves in order to 
attack it, or laugh at it, has been surprised to find himself with 
his head bowed and his eye moistened over these pages which 
he had been impatient to tear. To be, then, ministers of the Word, ' 
take with liberal hands, [it is a treasure open to all ; it is the 
only book of which no one runs the risk of being accused of pla- 
giarizing. Take ! These ideas which have already belonged to 
so many millions of intelligences, are as fully yours as if you had 
been the first to see them ; these images, admired thousands and 
thousands of times, will be so, as many times more, — they will be 
so, as long as the world contains the remnants of a pure and noble 
taste. And even if you should not venture to reproduce for fear 
of weakening them ; even if it should not be permitted you, sim- 
ple, country pastor, to rise in your discourses to the height of an 
Isaiah or a Saint Paul, at least you will recall in more humble 
proportions the unction and power of these immortal inspira- 
tions. What magnificence for instance 

“ But here is one who will tell you this better than I, and bet- 


264 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


ter than any one,” said Claude, suddenly interrupting himself. 
“ Come, monsieur, resume your place. Excuse me. I did not 
know that you were there.” 

It was Bossuet. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


CLAUDB ON THE SUBLIMITY OF THE SCRIPTURAL IDEAS OF DEATH AND THE 
NOTHINGNESS OF MAN. FOURTEENTH CHAPTER OF ISAIAH. 

Surprised, in the first place, that no one came to meet him, 
he had been still more so to find his place occupied, and that by 
Claude. However, either from curiosity or politeness, he ap- 
proached softly. Nothing had been heard, save the light tread 
of steps upon the smooth sand of the avenue ; no one had turned 
around, and Claude, who alone could have seen him, at this 
moment had his eyes somewhere else. So he had stopped out- 
side of the circle, and was completely hidden by those before 
him. 

The attention was profound. There was no need any longer 
that it should be excited by the mystery which still hung around 
Claude’s person ; known or unknown, he had few equals in the 
art of captivating whatever audience was before him, and the 
sketch which we have given of his discourse, would doubtless 
have appeared in the highest degree feeble and lifeless to those 
who had just heard it. They no longer dreamed of inquiring 
who he was, to be talking of the Bible with so much enthusiasm 
and assurance ; his right was written in his words. Bossuet was 
carried away like the rest ; he no longer remembered that he had 
been master in this same spot where he now found himself for 
the moment confounded among the disciples ; and it had been 
necessary for Claude to perceive him and cease, in order to with- 

23 


266 


THE PREACHER 


draw him from this inferior position, which ne dreamed not of 
leaving. 

Flattered by the compliment, he declined ; and in the midst of 
the general astonishment, for no one could imagine how or when 
he was come, he said ; 

“ No, no, you shall go on. I have too much pleasure in lis- 
tening to you — ” 

They know each other then ! thought all the assembly ; and 
those nearest to Bossuet did not delay asking him in a low voice 
the name of this mysterious personage. He smiled and made no 
reply. 

“ You wish it ?” said Claude ; “ well, I will continue, j And I 
shall be more at my ease than Monsieur Bossuet would have been 
in what I am going to say, for he would not have ventured to 
quote his own works, and yet it is there that we find the most 
beautiful things which the Bible has inspired in this century, in 
the regions of lofty poesy. I am told that you conversed yes- 
terday, and that it is again to be your theme to-day, on the four- 
teenth chapter of Isaiah. It is precisely the chapter which I was 
about to quote just now. But since you are good enough to be- 
stow on me a little more attention, permit me to go back a little. 

“ The poetical compositions of the Old Testament can be di- 
vided into four or five classes, and thus exercise a diverse influ- 
ence upon the imagination and style of the sacred orator. 

“ There are those, in the first place, which are purely descrip- 
tive. The subject of these is ordinarily God’s greatness, mani- 
fested in his works. Job and the Psalms abound in passages 
of this sort ; in the Prophecies, also, we find them most beau- 
ful. These, whatever their fitness to elevate the soul, to extend 
the thoughts, the preacher should be careful not to imitate too 
unrestrictedly. It degenerates too easily into declamation and 
bombast ; he fancies himself attaining the highest regions of elo- 


AND THE KING. 


267 


qiience, while, after all, it is nothing hut rhetoric. These am- 
plifications also generally produce very little effect ; it is a noisy 
music in which there is much for the ear and little for the soul. 
In a prayer, particularly, all the lofty titles by which God is address- 
ed, and all the displaying of his glory, is not of so much value as 
simple ‘Lord!’ a simple ‘my God!’ which comes from the 
heart, accompanied by a look of supplication ! 

“ It is always a great evil to embroider and amplify the Bible. 
Leave it its vigorous beauty none but an ignorant or degen- 
erate people have ever had the idea of dressing their godsf in 
fine clothes. It is also a somewhat injudicious respect which 
fancies it must manifest itself by a great display of expressions 
of admiration. Those who in the pulpit go into the greatest 
ecstacies about the beauties of the Bible, are not always those 
who have the truest and deepest feeling for these beauties.J So 
much the more, because it is so easy to be carried away too far, 
and in praising more common-place passages extravagantly, one 
is deprived of the means of making those which arc truly admi- 
rable properly appreciated. 

“ But to return,” continued Claude. “ There is a second class 
of compositions in the reproduction and imitation of which also 
much caution should be used ; I mean those eloquent threats, 
so frequent in the mouths of the prophets, whether they pro- 
nounced them in the name of their Head, or whether they were 

* Advice to translators of the Bible. It has been, by very pious trans- 
lators, disfigured by dint of great care and love. It is true that in the 
midst of all his subtleties, the perfume, as it were, of a simple piety is 
perceived. “Sacy has curled the Bible,” said some writer, “but not 
rouged it.” 

f Or their saints either, Claude probably thought, but he could not 
have said this without betrayiug himself. 

\ “ Xenophon does not say once in his whole Cyropaideia, that Cyrus 
was great; but he causes admiration of him to be felt throughout.”— • 
Fenelon. 


268 


THE PREACHER 


supposed to come from God himself. They are quick and ener- 
getic ; images are crowded into them ; it is truly the language 
of the strong and jealous God ; but if I may dare say so, it is 
not altogether that of the God of the Gospel ; and as it is scarcely 
possible to imitate without exaggerating, it might easily happen, 
that in taking the style of a prophet, that of an apostle would be 
lost sight of. Undoubtedly there are under the Gospel as well 
as under the ancient dispensation, judgments to be pronounced 
and chastisements to be threatened, and woe to that preacher 
who grows weak in this part of his task ! But he should not 
forget that he speaks more in the name of a father than of 
a master.^ The prophet’s task was to make God feared; his 
above all is to make him loved^ 

“ Not that even in the Old Testament there are not many places 
where God is already the God of the Gospel. The preacher need 
not fear to draw from these sources. Mingled with the more ex- 
plicit instructions of the New Testament, these patriarchal figures 
will only contribute to make them more popular, more touching, 
more penetrating ; without altering the lessons of truth, you 
will join with them, in some sort, all the charms of fiction. 

“ There is yet another class of these writings, thanks to which 
the happy and holy mingling of the two portions of the Bible 
takes place without the slightest effort. I mean those cries and 
emotions of a tortured soul, those songs of anguish or of deliv- 
erance, which in the Prophecies and Psalms succeed each other, 
are woven together and identified, in so pathetic a manner. In 
these, we are in the midst of the very purest Christianity. No 
Christian ever wept for his sins with truer repentance than Da- 
ad for his ; never has a soul, alarmed to feel itself under the 
iominion of evil, thrown itself with more earnestness at the foot 
of the throne of grace. And even in the places where the question 
s more particularly of earthly dangers and deliverances, there 


AND THE KING. 


269 


IS in the author’s words something so convincing, so feeling, that 
the Christian not only can apply them without trouble to the 
situation of his soul, but he cannot help doing so. The twenty- 
second Psalm, for instance, — you cannot read it without a mingling 
of Christian feelings ; you cannot paraphrase it without giving it 
a Christian character. And this, in my opinion, is the highest 
praise one can give them. Let the preacher, then, use them fre- 
quently, since it is so easy either for him to transform them into a 
Christian signification, or to find a striking and original form for 
Christian ideas. 

^ “ I come at length to that class where the prominent idea is that 
of the nothingness of man. Here we may boldly assert that an- 
cient poetry had nothing, absolutely nothing to compare with it. 
It is a new world, into which you enter with the Bible alone ; 
the highest geniuses have scarcely Reached the threshold. And 
yet, if there is one thought which every man might be supposed 
to have, it is that of his own misery ; if there is one where we 
may quickly sink into a frightful abyss, it is this. — Well, the books 
of the ancients seem to prove the contrary. Nothing can be 
colder, more sententious, than what they have said of death. It 
seems as if their sole end speaking of it, were to find a somewhat 
original manner of saying that we must all die. We might 
quote forty or fifty of these modes of expressing the idea, all 
ingenious but without grandeur, without life, without any of 
that indescribable something which strikes and overwhelms us, 
when an Isaiah, a David, a Solomon, or a Jeremiah even cur- 
sorily touches upon this formidable subject.^ Death, with both the 
philosophers and the poets of the ancients, is always more or less 
Charon’s bark ; what have those who spoke the best of immor- 

* “ Profane orators have often run after eloquence ; but eloquence has 
attached itself to the steps of the sacred writers.”— -Augustine. Be 
di'dr : Christ. 


23 * 


270 


THE PREACHER 


tality, Plato and Cicero, wliat have they said of death that had 
any grandeur ? They were not acquainted with tlie only book 
which would have taught them to speak of it with true sublimity, 
and to present the lessons of the tomb in all their majesty. 

“ But it is not enough only to be acquainted with this book. 
Although the source has been open for so many centuries, how 
small is still the number of good discourses on death ; I mean 
those where everything, conception and execution, are equally 
worthy of th€ subject ! For, in fact, if you only aim at making 
tears flow, it is the easiest thing in the world ; in any sermon 
whatever, introduce one or two phrases in regard to death, and 
you are sure of seeing some people in tears.'^ Does it follow 
that you should avoid making them weep ? No ; but be assured 
that it signifies nothing, and that it is a triumph, — if it be one, — 
as fleeting as it is easy. “Nought dries up sooner than a tear,” 
said Cicero.f In great afflictions, weeping is the grea'test relief 
thus, in a place of' worship, in place of increasing, tears only les- 
sen emotion. A really good sermon on death agitates and calms 
you, depresses and raises you, — alarms and reassures you, — 
but it does not make you weep ; and in the same manner that in 
a bereaved family, those who do not weep, are often the very ones 

* This was even truer at the time when Claude spoke, than now. We 
will not undertake to explain why ; but it is certain that people wept more, 
two centuries ago, especially the men. With the ancients, we know how 
easily emotion of all kinds broke out into tears. The great public mourn- 
ings, — the tears, the sobs of a whole nation, which are no longer anything 
but metaphors, were ages ago, facts. With individuals, the power of weep- 
ing is generally less as age advances ; is it perhaps the same with the 
race ? 

f Niliil laeryma citius areseit.” 

^ The impassibility of Louis XIV. was probably owing in part to this 
fact. At the death of his mother, his brother, his son, he was seen to weep 
violently for an hour or two ; afterwards he was as cahn and as much a 
king as ever. 


AND THE KING. 


271 


wh feel their loss most acutely, — so at the foot of your pulpit, 
it is not always in the tearful eye that you read the most alarm 
when you speak of death. We may say especially of this sub- 
ject, what has been said with so much justice of all religious sub- 
jects, — that none are so easy to treat indifferently, but none so 
difficult to treat well. ( Even in funeral orations, amid those royal 
obsequies where man’s nothingness speaks so loudly, how few ora- 
tors are there, who are capable of being its interpreters ! As for 
myself, I scarcely know but one whose eloquence answers almost 
entirely to the ideal which I have formed of the Christian orator 
declaiming against human greatness — ” 

Bossuet cast down his eyes. Beside him was another person 
who did the same, but biting his lips at the same time, — it was 
ffie Abbe Flechier. 

“ There is no need that I should name him to you,” continued 
Claude, “ and if he were not here — But why should I be silent ? 
Whether he hear me or not, I am but just. He has too much 
genius not to humble himself beneath the hand of the God who 
bestowed it ; he has acquired too much glory not to attribute a 
large part of it to the divine book to which he owes it. It can- 
not be otherwise than sweet for a Christian to place upon the 
altar of the word of God, the laurels which it has gained him 
among men. 

“ Yes, Monsieur,” he continued, addressing himself to Bossuet, 
it is this that gives me the greatest pleasure and happiness in 
reading your funeral orations. It is grateful for me to admire 
you, bee luse this very admiration is an homage rendered to the 
God who has made you what you are, and vho has furnished 
such sublime food for your genius. 

“ It is true that independently of the riches of the Bible, you 
have had great advantages in the subjects offered you. A de- 
throned queen, — a princess suddenly dead at the age of twenty- 


212 


THE PREACHER 


six, — these are excellent oratorical subjects, which form an era, 
not only in the life of a preacher, but in the history of a century. 
And who knows what the future may destine for you ? — Death 
concerns himself little as to whether there be room or not in the 
vaults of Saint Denis.^* — But the greater the subject, the greater 
need has the orator to seek elsewhere than within himself, the 
strength to seize it. A biblical and Christian inspiration alone, 
can render him capable of it ; — without this he will achieve great 
phrases, instead of great thoughts. And a mere rhetorician is so 
contemptible ! 

“ But it is not sufficient to avoid this in generalities, — ^it must 
also be avoided in details. In this respect, the funeral oration is 
a sea full of shoals. However noble its execution, however ele- 
vated its object, it is an eulogy after all ; and even if you never 
had to deal save with those heroes truly worthy of esteem and 
admiration, the very fact of praising a man in a place of worship 
is a kind of outrage against the glory of God. For this reason we 
may question whether the funeral oration does not do more harm 
in its quality of panegyric, than good, as a sermon upon death. 

“ Everything taken into consideration, however, it seems to me 
that their use is not so injurious as one would think, or as certain 
moralists have asserted./ If the praises given to the deceased be 
just, everybody knows them already ; if they are false, no one 
believes them, {^ut what is always true, is that a great man is 
dead, and that this great man is now nothing ; what is always 
certain is, that he has returned to primitive equality, and that 

* “ Slie must descend to those sombre regions, with those anniliilated 
kings and princes among whom we can scarcely find room to place her, so 
crowded are the ranks .” — Funeral Oration of the Duchess of Orleans. 

When the body of the dauphin, eldest son of Louis XIV., was carried 
to St. Denis in 1778, it was remarked, not without a vague terror, that 
the royal vault was entirely full. There was literally no place for Louis 
XVI. in the tomb of his ancestors. 


AND THE KING. 


273 


the ci\^wd of the common dead could say to him, in seeing him 
join them, ‘ thou art become like unto one of us !” Now, this 
solemn irony of the tomb, — this lugubrious sneering which seems 
to resound from its abyss each time that a great personage enters 
it, — this is the true moral of the funeral oration. Do not dwell 
upon it too much ; you might seem to be triumphing from jeal- 
ousy over a brother’s humiliation, but on the other hand, take 
care not to weaken it. In announcing that death is regardless of 
dignities, or riches, — the orator must not appear surprised at this, 
or begin to call for sympathy for the fate of his subject. After 
having said to the great, “ You must die, like all others,” he must 
not seem to ask pardon, or tremble for having said too mii ch."^ 
The most beautiful funeral oration that I know — ” 

Bossuet made a slight movement. 

“ It is not one of yours. Monsieur — ” 

A gleam of joy flashed from Flechier’s eyes. 

“ Neither is it one of those which have been most praised in 
your rivals in eloquence, if indeed, you have rivals.” 

Flechier again became thoughtful. If Claude had known 
him to be present, he would have spared him these little wounds, 
which, for that matter, were well deserved. 

“ It is,” he continued, “ the famous chapter in question. There 
are no artifices there, — no evasions ; it is the nakedness of the 
tomb. A king dies. The nation asks if it be really true. They 
were so accustomed to see him live as if he were never to die, that 
they had almost come to believe that he never could die. But, 
in short, he is really dead. They raise their heads. — For the first 


* “ We must all die, — all, — ^yes, sire, dmost all,” said a preacher one 
day before Louis XI V. It seems that tie kiug had made a slight move- 
ment at the word “ all, — a//,” and that the poor orator, fearing he had 
offended him, could find nothing better than this “ almost,” to soften the 
effect of his “ all.” Is the anecdote true ? If not, it might be, at least. 


274 


THE PREACHER 


time tliey dare to fix their eyes upon this omntenance before 
which they have ao long bowed their heads to the dust. They 
had fancied it so high, so grand. They had transformed their 
monarch into a giant. And now that he lies low, a few feet of 
ground is sufiicient for him. ‘ The Lord hath broken his sceptre,’ 
and the people employ themselves in gathering up the fragments, 
and see it was but a gilt ‘ staff, of fragile and worm-eaten wood.’ 
And the whole earth is at rest ; they break forth into singing. 
Even the cedars of Lebanon rejoice at his fall, saying, ‘ Since thou 
art laid down, no feller is come up against us.’ But no, he is not 
laid down, that is he sleepeth not. Scarcely were his eyes closed 
upon this world, when he must open them in another, and be 
witness of his own interment in the depths of the tomb. ‘ All 
the kings of the nations are come to meet him.’ To salute him ? 
No; to mingle among the rest of the dead, and contemplate him, 
confounded among this nameless crowd. And then burst forth, 
beneath the infernal vaults, these voices, these cries, this terrible 
and solemn chant of the grave’s equality ; ‘ How art thou fallen 
from heaven ? How art thou cut down to the ground, which 
didst weaken the nations ! Thou saidst, I will ascend into heaven, 
I will exalt my throne above the stars of God, and yet they that 
look upon thee consider thee, saying, is this the man that made 
the earth to tremble ?’ What a poem, gentlemen ! what a poet ! 
what an orator !” 

“ Ah’,” resumed Claude, after a moment’s'silence, “ if God had 
summoned me to address kings from the pulpit, it seems to me 
I could never ascend there without reading them this chapter. 
I would have it engrave itself in their minds ; I would have it 
accompany them, pursue them like a phantom in the midst of 
the pomps of their court and the adoration of their flatterers ; I 
would have them find it upon tieir palaces in letters of fire, and 
upon their triumphal arches, and the hangings of their festive 


AND THE KING. 


275 


Iialls. Yes ! if they remembered it better during their lives, the 
nations would recall it with less joy at their death. Do you 
think that this will not be the case when — ” 

“ Softly, softly !” exclaimed some of Claude’s auditors anx- 
iously. They ^understood from his gesture that he was about to 
say “ when the king dies,” and their blood froze at the mere idea 
of hearing these words. 

“ We are alone,” resumed the minister ; “ and suppose he 
should hear us. Please God — ” 

He lowered his voice a little, however. 

“ Well ; we will leave that. No ; we will not speak of his 
death, lie lives, and perhaps none of us may outlive him. But 
only see, see with what terrible fidelity the prophet seems to have 
traced his portrait. Be assured that the moment will come when, 
in that absolute power under which she seems at present to be 
proud and happy to stoop, France will see nothing but a fright- 
ful despotism. Be assured that these wars by means of which 
he would make himself the hero of all Europe — ” 

The circle drew closer together around Claude. They scarcely 
breathed ; and uneasy and frightened glances were cast on every 
'Side. If any one had appeared at the end of the Avenue, the 
whole assembly would have dispersed in an instant. It seemed 
as if they expected to see the king start up out of the earth, at 
the spot where they had seen hi in ' the evening before. 

Claude continued ; he enjoyed their terror. He repeated all 
he had written two years before to Bourdaloue, in regard to the 
ambition, the faults, the vices of the. king. “ And what man,” 
he said finally, “ what man ever possessed more pride ! The only 
duty, the only I’ight of others, in his eyes, is to labor for his 
pleasures, for his glory, for the plans of magnificence projected 
by him. Oh yes, ‘ the cedars of Lebanon shall rejoice at his 
fall,’ for nature itself has felt the burthen of his yoke. This soil 


276 


THE PREACHER 


upon which we here stand, was brought here ; these trees, — it 
was wished to spare the sovereign the fatigue of seeing them 
grow large ; so they were planted as they are, and for every one 
that flourished, ten died. And he is made to believe that France 
is proud to pay for these enormous expenditures ; while they 
will one day perhaps be the bitterest grievances of which the 
nation will complain, and which history will record. And all 
these kings whom he has conquered, — all those whom he threat- 
ens or humiliates, — do you think it will not be a consolation, a 
tiiumph to their incensed hearts, to realize one day, in the depths 
of the grave, the gloomy fiction of the prophet, ‘ Thou also art 
become weak as we ! Thou art become like unto us !’ ” 

Claude was silent. His listeners, by look, manner, and move- 
ment, had long implored him to cease. Fenelon and his uncle, 
together with Bossuet, were the only ones who had not visibly 
trembled ; yet it was easy to see that the Marquis himself was 
stupified at the boldness of the minister. Perhaps it may seem 
surprising that so grave a man as Claude should so far quit the 
respect generally imposed by the name of Louis XIV. even upon 
the most independent spirits. But, in the very strongest things 
he had said, there was perceptible neither the spirit of a mal- 
content taking pleasure in speaking evil of his king, nor of a 
morose philosopher, happy to degrade that which seems great ; 
he was simply a friend of religion, lamenting to see its holiest 
laws trampled under foot by one calling himself most Christian 
king. Besides, he had only ecclesiastics for his auditors, save 
one person, whom he was sure of not displeasing by an excess 
of severity. He had, then, no reason not to believe them ac- 
tuated, at least in secret, by the same feelings with himself ; a 
physician talking to physicians, he had not dreamed of cloaking 
either words or facts. Oh ! if he had been able to go yet fur- 
ther, if God had opened his eyes for an instant to the mysteries 


AND THE KING 


of the future, what terrible fesemblaiices would he have added to 
those with which the prophet had already furnished him ! And 
when he read these terrible words ; “ But thou art cast out of 
thy grave like an abominable branch, as a carcase trodden under 
feet,” would not his tongue have stiffened in his jaws, if he could 
have suspected that this, word for word, was the terrible history 
of that which, one hundred and eighteen years after, was to hap- 
pen to the desecrated remains of Louis the Great ? 

24 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


THE UNEASINESS OF BOUEDALOUE AND BOSSUET. 

Bourdaloue had had time enough since the evening before, 
to be thinking within himself of all that Claude had just said. 
A new world had, as it were, been opened to his eyes. The 
king, the court, his own ministry, all appeared to him more or 
less under a different aspect. , 

Thus he had not been able to close his eyes. The night before 
preaching, this was generally the case ; but his sleeplessness this 
time, had left a sensible anguish behind it. All night he had 
sighed for the day ; the day, when it appeared, brought him no 
relief. 

On the contrary, as the hour approached, he felt more and 
more agitated; he began to despair of himself. In vain he 
forced himself from time to time, to seek more calmly for the 
motives of his apprehensions, in vain he repeated to himself, that 
after all, it was only a rather more severe sermon than usual. 
An undefined anguish is only the more painful and tenacious from 
that very reason. The unreasonableness of your apprehensions 
is proved to you ; you admit it, and you do not cease, never- 
less, to be ar dous. The scenes of the preceding evening, Bos- 
suet, Claude, the appeals of his conscience, the fact, so extraor- 
dinary for him, of delivering another’s words from the pulpit, 
and finally the immense commotion which his words might pro- 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


279 


duce, — all these things contributed to keep him in a state in 
which he had never yet felt himself, in which he would not have 
believed he ever could find himself. 

However, the hours of the day dragged on scarcely less heavily 
than those of the night, and he was not to ascend the pulpit until 
vespers, that is to say, about four o’clock in the afternoon. Some- 
• times he set about reading his sermon, but it was only with his 
eyes and lips ; sometimes he undertook to recite it, but after a 
few lines he ceased, and did not remember to go on again. Fi- 
nally, he went out, but without object, and only for the sake of 
going out. 

In passing the chateau the idea struck him that he would take 
a turn in the park. Our council was still there, with the excep- 
tion of Claude, who had just taken leave. 

His visit was quite unexpected, and none was more surprised 
at it than Bossuet. “ What is it ? What has happened ?” he 
asked, endeavoring to be overheard by no other. 

“ What has happened ? Nothing. I stood in need of a little 
flesh air.” 

God be praised ! I trembled lest it should be to — ” 

“To what?” 

“ I scarcely know ; but at any rate I was afraid it might be 
something. That would have been all that was wanting to — 

“ All that was wanting, you say ? Something then already — 
“No, — that is to say, — however — 

“ There is something, I see — ” 

“ Well, yes, something. But why did you come ? It would 
have been a thousand times better that you should not know 
it—” 

“ Perhaps. But since that cannot be, tell me. What is it 
about ? Do not leave me in — ” , 

“ I have seen the king again.” 


280 


THE PREACHER 


“ Well ?” 

“ He appears decided not to go to the chapel, or at least to re- 
ti ’e before the sermon.” 

Bourdaloue contained himself ; but in vain, he could not give 
himself the air of a man receiving a piece of bad news. In pres- 
ence of something you apprehend, it is in vain that reason tells 
you, it would be unfortunate if it were not to take place, you 
cannot help feeling a certain joy at the thought of escaping it. 

“ Ho not be too certain of this,” continued Bossuet. “ He will 
come. He shall come, I tell you — ” 

The preacher’s brow again clouded. 

“ And how can you force him to come ?” he asked. 

“ He will come ; — he must — ” 

The fact is, that Bossuet ha*d not yet formed any definite plan, 
and did not very well know how to go to work. 

“ But what has happened ?” asked Bourdaloue. 

“ The queen sent for me ; secretly, a’fe you may well imagine. 
I found her in a retired cabinet, pale and trembling. You know 
her ; the very idea of doing anything unknown to her husband, 
is enough to throw her into a mortal agony. She knew of the 
departure of Mine, de Montespan ; she knew, also, or rather she 
suspected, that I had had something to do with it. She asked 
me what was my share in it, and when I had told her aJl that I 
could properly tell her, she thanked me with tears in her eyes, 
conjuring me not to allow myself to be rebuffed, to continue to 
be her protector. That is the word she used. Her protector ! 
The queen! She opened her heart to me. I found nothing 
that I would not have been certain I would have found there, if 
I had ever been permitted to read it. What she has sufifered 1 
The insults and tears she has endured and concealed I What 
has been observed by the court, is nothing to what she has been 
obl’ged to endure in private. Would you believe it ? She feels 


AND THE KING. 


281 


«T sincere affection for her first rival.'* The cruel haughtiness of 
the second, has inspired her with a hind of gratitude for the gen- 
tleness and humility of the woman who knew at least how to 
blush for her shame, and who never appeared before her save 
with eyes cast down, and as if imploring forgiveness. I was 
confounded to hear the queen speak of Mme. de Valliere as one 
speaks of a person to whom one feels bound by a common dis- 
grace. What does she lack, I thought, in what point does she 
fail, that she does not at least find people who seem to be in- 
terested in her sufierings,f this unhappy queen ? Alas ! she 
lacks that for the adornment of her virtue, which so many others 
use to adorn their vice ; she lacks talent, wit, — and her very 
beauty, if she were beautiful, would only serve to render her 
want pf it more conspicuous. It was not a wife like her, that 
the king should have had. Even when he loved her, (for he did 
love her,) he could not find her society agreeable. But what of 
that ? Would he have been more constant to another ? To re- 
turn. After I left her, and was being shown out by a concealed 
staircase — ” 

“ I can imagine,” said Bourdaloue. “ It is a complete ro- 
mance.” 

“ A complete romance, as you say; only much 'too historical. 
Here I found myself on this staircase, however, face to face with 
the king ! By what accident was he passing there ? Was he 
going to see the queen ? It is not probable ; he does not often 

* It was a still sadder and stranger sight, when the poor queen, a short 
time afterwards, began to conciliate Mine, de Montespan, in order to ob- 
tain from her as a friend, the respect which she dared not exact as a queen. 
See in Mme. de Sevignc (June and July 1675) some curious details in re- 
gard to this singular connection. 

I The preceding year, in order to diminish somewhat the scandal of the 
isolation in which she was left, the king had been obliged to double the 
number f her ladies of honor. (See de Sevigne ; letters of Jan. 1674.) 


282 


THE PREACHER 


go. I am a good deal inclined to think that he knew he should 
meet me there. However this may be, he looked somewhat sur- 
prised. I do not know whether I looked so, but I certainly was, 
and very much.” 

“ You came from the queen ?” the king said to me. 

“ She sent for me, sire.” 

“ And you did not tell me of it S” 

“ Would your majesty have thought of forbidding me to see 
the queen?” 

He appeared a little embarrassed; “No,” he said; “but I 
ought to know all.” 

“ To have told you beforehand, sire, would only hdVe been an 
additional insult to the queen — 

“ An additional — 

“ Does your Majesty believe that a woman easily loses the re- 
membrance of their number ?” 

“ Above all, when she is assisted to count them up — '' 

“ There was no need of that. Sire. Mme. de Montespan has 
spared her nothing that could most deeply engrave the remem- 
brance of her griefs upon her heart. Further, I am ready to re- 
peat to you all that she said to me ; and I only wish that you your- 
self could have heard her. Perhaps you would have allowed 
yourself to be touched, upon seeing so little bitterness in a heart 
which you could not blame for being full of it. The queen is 
still what she has always been towards you, gentle, loving, sub- 
missive ; and her only revenge is to pray to God every day, 
far less for her own happiness, than for the happiness and sal- 
vation of her husband, and that you may have the strength — ” 

“ Listen, Monsieur Bossuet. I have never had a doubt of the 
queen’s virtue.^ If Mme. de Montespan has failed in respect to- 

* Louis XIV. regarded this fact with complacency. He strove to con- 
sider it and tave it considered, as a so t of reparation of all his offences 


AND THE KING. 


283 


wards her, she was wrong, very wrong. I shall give my orders 
about it ; and be sure that in future — ” 

I shuddered. In future ! Do you understand ? It was 
plainly informing me that the immorality was going to continue, 
— a little more decently, — but at any rate continue. That was 
not his thought at the moment, I know ; but this word was none 
the less a fresh indication of the depth of the wound. 

“ That — that shall never happen again,” he resumed, coloring. 
“The queen ought to confess, injustice, that I have never in her 
presence said or done any thing that could wound her. But, to 
return to the affair of to-day ; the queen would certainly not wish 
me to submit to hear before her and the whole court censures 
which — In fact, for twelve hours I have been able to think of 
nothing but this sermon. The whole night — ” 

“Ah !” interrupted Bourdaloue, “it is but just that I should 
not be the only one !” 

“ In short,” resumed Bossuet, “ he declared that he would not 
hear you, unless I would promise for you that your sermon should 
have — ” 

“ And what did you promise ?” 

“ Nothing. I told the king that I would not insult him by 
taking him at his word, and believing that he really was afraid 
to hear the truth.” 

“ But,” said Bourdaloue, visibly annoyed, “ why exact that he 
should submit to hear it publicly ? If the end be attained, if 
he promise — ” 

“ Ah ! but that is precisely what he does not do. What has 

towards the queen. This was the ground generally taken in speaking 
of him and his irregularities; Massillon himsMf makes use of it in his 
funeral oration. “At least,” he said, “he never ceased to respect the 
virtue of Theresa.” Louis XIV. excelled, as we see, in facilitating the 
labor of his apologists. 


284 


THE PREACHEB AND THE KING. 


he definitely promised to me ? For I scarcely think that you 
will he any more disposed than I am to take this singular in fu- 
ure as a promise. No, no ! Since I have had the courage to 
struggle against the king, I shall have the courage to struggle 
against ^ou. I confess that I was not prepared for this latter 
combat ; but no matter, I will not give it up. Then my bast 
auxiliary against you will be yourself ; you will understand, you 
feel already, I do not doubt, what cowardice in the eyes of God, 
in the eyes of men even, there would be in drawing back now. 
Will you trust me ? Do not trouble yourself any more about 
any thing — ” 

“ About any thing ?” 

“ Yes, about any thing. Trust to me, and, when the moment 
arrives, enter the pulpit. If the king be not there, not a word of 
reference to him ; to strike at him behind his back would be un 
worthy of us, unworthy of religion. If he be there, as I hope 
he will be, go on your way. Say all that I heard you recite 
yesterday, and I will answer for it, that even if the first two 
or three phrases should shock the king, you will not arrive at 
the conclusion without his being much more inclined to humble 
himself than to be irritated.” 

“ But—” 

“ Adieu. They are waiting for me.” 

And Bossuet rejoined his friends. And as he passed near 
the Marquis, he said, “Was it not to-day that you were to 
write to Monsieur Aimauld ?” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE ROYAL CHAPEL OF VERSAILLES. 

When Mine, de Caylus, by birth a Protestant, relates in her 
Recollections, how Madame de Maintenon had her carried off 
and taken to Versailles, she says, “I cried a great deal at first; 
but the next day I found the royal mass so beautiful that I no 
longer hesitated to become Catholic, upon condition that I should 
hear it every day.” 

The royal chapel of Versailles presented, in fact, a brilliant 
spectacle, particularly on the days of religious solemnities. The 
majesty of the cathedrals was not to be looked for there ; the lo- 
cality did not admit of that; in 1675, the present chapel was 
not yet built, and the former one was rather a vast saloon than 
a church. But the most curious and most dazzling object, that 
which scarcely allowed a stranger time to bend his attention 
upon the magnificence of the decorations and the service, was the 
crowd assembled within these walls ; the almost fabulous assem- 
blage of all the great names, all the great fortunes, and all that 
was most illustrious in France. Among all these people, mingled 
and crowded in the king’s chapel, like the bourgeois of Paris in 
their parish churches-, — there were very few who did not also pos- 
sess their chapel, their chaplain, and their chateau; few who 
could not have enthroned themselves somewhere, if they had 
chosen, like kings ; few who were not or coula not have been 


286 


THE PREACHER 


tlie heroes of the solemn praises of some village Bourdaloue. 
But they willingly renounced all these parish church triumphs. 
They did not regret to exchange for some narrow and obscure 
lodging at the top of the palace, the vast saloons of the habita- 
tions of their fathers and their lordly velvet in a provincial 
church, did not appear to them of half the value of the untapes- 
tried end of a bench in the chapel of Versailles. 

Louis XIV. liked to see his chapel full. Without explaining 
to himself precisely why, a proud instinct made him attach so 
much the more value to the homage of his court, because this 
homage was here mingled and confounded with that rendered to 
God. One thing certain is, that the best part was not often 
given to God. These services were scarcely regarded as more 
than a ceremonial ; and sincerely pious people did not hesitate 
to go afterwards somewhere else to perform their devotions again, 
just as one is sometimes very glad after a state dinner, to take 
his seat at a humbler board, where he can at least eat in peace 
and satisfy his appetite. The real centre of the chapel, the point 
whither all eyes, all thoughts were bent, was not the altar; it 
was the seat of the king. On sermon and communion days, the 
monarch’s place was so near the altar, that even with their eyes 
fixed upon him, people could seem to be attending a little to 

* And they sold them, if it was necessary. But they did still worse 
than sell them ; they began not to understand that there could be any 
peculiar feeling in retaining them. See how Mine, de Sevigne ridicules 
(July 10, 1675) the family de Belli^re, because this old and noble family 
is unwilling to part with its ancestral residence. “ Idiey could never 
agree to sell it,” she says, “ because it is the paternal mansion, and the 
shoes of the old chancellor have touched its pavement. And on account 
of this old dotage, here they are lodged for twenty thousand francs of rent, 
— for four hundred thousand was offered them for it. What a pity that 
Moliere is dead ! He would make a good farce of it.” Xo, Madame la 
Marquise ; Moliere had too much heart to ridicule those, who doted enough 
still to value a little the old home of their fathers. 


AND THE KING. 


287 


wliat was going on ; when there was only a plain mass, as the 
king remained in his gallery, all eyes had to choose between the 
altar and him, and it was but in the most solemn moments, that 
the officiating priest could hope to draw them towards himself.'*' 
Until the king’s- arrival, there was moving about and conversa- 
tion ;f a stranger would have hincied himself in a theatre before 
the rising of the curtain. At the instant when the guards took 
possession of the doors, — which fact announced that the king was 
going to appear, — an absolute silence established itself everywhere, 
to the remotest corners. It was not the king for whom they 
waited ; it was as if God himself, until then absent from the 
chapel, had suddenly filled it with his presence and glory. 
There is a story told of the malice of the Duke de Brissac, major 
of the guards, and the astonishment of the king one day, upon 
finding the chapel almost deserted. The duke had nothing to 
do but to withdraw the guards, and to say loud enough to be 
heard, that his majesty was not coming. 

It is true, it would probably not have been so if Bourdaloue 

* “ This nation, moreover, has its king and its God. The great assem- 
ble every day in a certain temple. At the extremity of this temple, is an 
altar consecrated to their God, where a priest celebrates certain myste- 
ries, which they call holy, sacred, awe-inspiring. The nobles form a vast 
circle around this altar, and remain standing with their backs turned to 
the priests aud the mysteries, and their faces towards their kiog. It is 
easy to perceive a kind of worship iu this usage, for the people appear to 
adore their prince, and the prince to adore God.” — La Bruyere. 

f “The Abbe de Valbelle informed me, that after mass, his majesty 
smilingly presented his almoners with a printed document, which an un- 
known person had circulated at Saint Germain, and in which the nobility 
supplicate the king to reform the manners of his clergy ,~who converse 
and talk aloud, and turn their backs to the altar, before his majesty’s ar- 
rival in the chapel, — and to command them to behave with at least the 
same reverence when only God is iu the chapel, as when the king is there. 
This petition is very well drawn up. The bishops are furious at it.— 
Mme. de Sevigne. 19 Jan. 1674. 


288 


THE PREACHER 


had been expected to preach that day. The crowd may then be 
imagined, when this attraction was added to that of seeing the 
king, and above all, of being seen by him. Upon these occasions 
the ushers were obliged to forbid the entrance of the chapel to a 
crowd of people who usually had a right to enter ; the highest 
nobility alone were admitted, and there was not even enough 
room for them. They took a great pleasure and a great pride 
in hearing at Versailles many a sermon which they had perhaps 
already heard at Paris. They exhausted themselves in guesses 
as to what the preacher was going to add, change or omit ; and 
finally discovered a crowd of details which had at first appeared 
insignificant, to be of the greatest importance. Then they did 
not always agree as to these details ; some remembered them 
less distinctly than others ; some had heard them one way, some 
another ; and this caused a thousand discussions, a thousand lit- 
tle disputes, the settlement of which was necessarily adjourned 
until the moment when the orator in repeating his discourse, 
should prove one right and the other wrong, and often both 
wrong. It was still worse when the discourse was finished. 
Few works in our day make as much noise on their first appear- 
ance, as many a discourse of Bourdaloue was able to cause in a 
certain circle; and if sermons have retained, particularly in 
Protestant countries, the privilege of being the most fruitful sub- 
jects of conversation for many persons, we cannot be astonished 
that it was so at a period when politics, newspapers, and all their 
accompaniments, occupied scarcely any place in the lives of indi- 
viduals and nations. That these conversations were, or are irre- 
proachable in regard to intention and manner, that their sole end 
is always to profit as much as possible by the sermon, which is 
their subject, is very dubious ; but, however, it is always at least 
an index of a certain religious vitality, a certain interest for religion. 

On the day when all that we have already related had taken 


AND THE KING. 


289 


place, the chapel had never been more crowded, or to speak more 
correctly, never had such a number of persons found an entrance 
impossible. The ladies having filled all the places, generally i e- 
served for the men, the latter were crowded in the doorways, the 
gratings, the outside galleries, everywhere as far as it could be 
hoped the voice of the preacher could be heard. In every corner 
there was a dazzling confusion of feathers, embroideries, and swords, 
for the men came to chapel in all the splendor of their usual cos- 
tumes. The women were forced by custom to simplity theirs, but 
they strove to find materials and fashions from which simplicity 
did not exclude magnificence, and many a dress for church, quite 
plain in appearance, had often cost much dearer than a ball-dress. 
For that matter, it is a pious fraud of which the tradition does 
not appear to have been lost. 

On this day, then, great was the commotion. A Good-Friday 
to be celebrated, a sermon to be heard from Bourdaloue, the whis- 
perings of the evening before, the grand news of the night, for it 
had not been an hour before everybody knew that the marquise 
had fled, — this was amply sufficient to pique curiosity, and to de- 
prive all other subjects of conversation of all interest. And yet 
subjects were not wanting. It was in the very hottest period 
of the intrigues relative to the distribution of ranks in the army 
which was about to unite, (for the last time, alas !) under the 
command of Turenne ; and this latter, in concert with the Prince 
de Conde, had put himself openly at the head of a sort of plot 
to overthrow Louvois. There had been nothing talked of since the 
beginning of the week, but certain apologies to which the king 
was said to have forced the proud minister to abase himself, be- 
fore the marshal. — But this was a very small thing compared 
with the news of the day. 

Add to this, that the king had not been seen all the morning, 
llis levee had only lasted a few minutes. The courtiers had 

25 


290 


THE PREACHER 


scarcely entered his chamber, when the usher pronounced the 
“ Pass on, gentlemen !’* which signified that his Majesty wished 
to be alone. On one of the days of public dinners, (grand con- 
vert) Louis XIV. would probably not have recoiled from the 
annoyance of eating in public ; but these never took place during 
holy week, and, alone in his chamber, he had scarcely touched 
the three dishes of vegetables, which were brought him as his 
whole dinner the Friday and Saturday before Easter. The rumor 
began to be rife, that he was going to remain shut up until even- 
ing. The people who asserted this, knew nothing more of the 
matter in reality, that those to whom they mysteriously went to 
communicate it. But it was with this, as with almost all rumors, 
— namely, one person had said perhaps^ a second, probably^ and 
a third, certainly. 

They came, however, very near having guessed rightly. The 
hour was about to strike, and the guards had not come. The 
hour struck, — nothing yet. The newsmongers triumphed. — It is 
so delightful to see that happen which one has predicted, even 
if it be a misfortune ! 

The priests were at the altar ; the queen in her gallery ; Bos- 
suet, in that of his pupil. The poor dauphin did not seem to 
understand much in regard to all this commotion, and his pre- 
ceptor seemed not at all inclined to explain to him its cause. 

That which was considered the most astonishing was not that 
the king did not come, but that he had not sent word. In the 
smallest as in the greatest things, he was never seen to be unde- 
cided ; he never made his appearance where he was not expected ; 
and never failed to come where he was expected. Thus every 
second, every minute added to the general anxiety, and although 
there was some little constraint for the sake of the queen and the 
dauphin, it was enough to jast one glance over the assemblage 
to perceive all the signs of tlie most intense expectation. 


CHAPIEB XXVI. 


THE STRUGGLES OF BOURDALOUE, AND THE VACILLATION OF THE KING. 

Let us quit the chapel for a moment, and see what was pass- 
ing elsewhere. 

In the sacristy a man was walking up and down. From time 
to time he approached the door, listened a moment, and then re- 
commenced his walk. He had an extremely agitated air. His 
breathing was rapid and violent ; his white surplice was throbbing 
above his heart. But as the hour advanced, and the dull mur- 
murs of the chapel continued to prove that the king was not 
there, a ray of joy seemed to pierce through the sombre glance 
of his eye. 

In the cabinet of the king a man was also walking ; it was 
the king himself. He was not alone. If it had not been for 
that, the question would have been decided long before, and he 
would have sent orders to the chapel that he was not to be waited 
for. It had only depended upon himself to send these orders in 
the morning ; and nevertheless, although quite decided, he had 
been in no haste to do it. Besides, having too much the feeling 
of his own independence to fear that his will might appear less 
firm, because he delayed to express it, he had not felt at hi? 
ease ; he had recoiled. Without distinctly recalling the words 
of Bossuet, for he had scarcely listened to him, he thought of 
them in spite of himself ; and although this was not sufiicient to 


292 


THE PREACHER 


make him change his mind, it was enough to deprive him of a 
little of his habitual assurance, — of that faith in himself and his 
own actions which ordinarily did not permit him even to suspect 
that he deceived himself, or did wrong. This novel disposition 
of mind had not escaped Bossuet in his last interview with the 
king, and on this account, encouraged to attempt a last efifort, he 
had sent the Duke of Montausier to him. 

But why not go himself? It was now neither indolence nor 
fear. Difficult as had been the struggle the day before, to be 
frank and bold with the king, it was now just as easy, — the battle 
once commenced, — to remain frank, and to become bolder and 
bolder. But he feared that his influence upon the king might 
already be weakened by the continued friction of these interviews, 
following one another so closely, and the duke had willingly ac- 
cepted the mission, making him however promise to intervene 
anew, if circumstances should require it. 

We will not attempt to describe his uneasiness, his anguish. 
His \dsit of the day before to Mine, de Montespan had made al- 
most as much noise as the departure of the latter ; in the opinion 
of the court, the two events were much more closely connected 
than was really the case. To the ordinary respect which all felt 
for his merit and rank, was now accordingly added all the con- 
sideration which courtiers cannot fail to have for whoever is 
powerful, or seems to be so. To have caused the exile of Mme. 
de Montespan ! If he had been a nobody, this alone would have 
made him a great personage. From the corner of his gallery, he 
saw all eyes turned upon him ; all the curiosity excited by the 
events of the day, and the absence of the king, was transferred 
to him. He affected to talk with the dauphin ; but some sec- 
onds after the hour had struck, the movement of heads towards 
his gallery became so universal and distinct, that he could not 
avoid raising his eyes. He encountered those of the queen. 


/AND THE KING. 


293 


She looked at him with a supplicating air, as if to recall to him 
his promises of the morning. It was too much ; he went out. 

The Duke de Montausier had been very near arriving too late, 
ne had found the king coming out of his cabinet to tell his suite 
to go without him. 

You are not at chapel ?” the king asked, upon seeing him. 

“ I came from there, Sire. We only await your Majesty.” 

The king was silent, and re-entered his cabinet. 

We have already seen what an influence the old duke exer- 
cised over Louis XIV. Bossuet did this also, doubtless, but by his 
arguments ; it was enough for Montausier to make his appearance. 

He followed the king, and waited. There was a long silence. 

“ But it is an actual persecution !” cried the king at length. 
“ Do they come to look for you, if you happen to choose to stay 
away from mass ? — ” 

“ I never choose to stay away, Sire, except when I am ill. 
Then your Majesty knows that there are certain points in which 
a king is less free than the lowest of his subjects — ” 

“Ah!” said the king, “ there has been pains enough taken 
to remind me of it for the last two days. I thought it was fin- 
ished. It seems to me I have done enough — ” 

“ You have done nothing, if you do not finish. A Good 
Friday, — two days before Easter 1 I do not believe that a king 
of France has ever failed — ” 

“ No king of France has ever found himself in my present po- 
sition.” 

“ So much the more reason for you to seek from God the peace 
which you do not find among men. The chapel — ” 

“What should I do there? My mind would be elsewhere. 
The service would only fatigue me ; the sermon — ” 

He stopped. “ Well ! the sermon ?” said the inexorable Mon- 
tausier. 


25 '^ 


294 


THE PREACHER AND THE KING. 


“ The sermon ? Don’t speak to me of it again. I have been 
very indulgent to allow so much to be said to me of it — ” 

“ Listen, Sire. It is very easy not to speak to you of it any 
more ; but it is no longer in any one’s power to prevent all the 
court, all France from talking of it. Come and hear it, and 
soon nothing more will be said of it ; stay here, and it will soon 
be the talk of all Europe. ‘ He was afraid,’ they will say — ” 

The king made a movement. 

“ Yes, afraid^'' resumed the duke ; “ will it be a falsehood ? 
But what am I saying to you ! Chase away these miserable con- 
siderations of pride. Come, because it is your duty ; come, be- 
cause God and the world have an equal right to exact it. Come. 
Ah ! Sire, will you be deaf to the voice of an old servant ? It is 
the first favor he has ever asked from you ; it will be the last, 
please God. But come, — the hour is already past. In the name 
of your salvation, your glory, come — ” 

And he was very near taking the king by the arm. That 
would have been going too far. The king followed him, fascina- 
ted ; — slowly, it is true, and with a still visible reluctance. 

“ Come he said, once more ; and he opened the door. — Bos- 
suet was the other side of it. 

“ You have been there !” said the king, stupefied. 

“ No, sire, I have just come. They were just about to an 
nounce me.” 

** Let his Majesty pass ! — Aside !” cried the duke. 

And the king passed out in silence. 


CHAPTER XXyil. 


bouedaloue’s sermon. 

His guard' only arrived at the same moment with himself. 
Nothing having announced his coming, the sensation it caused 
was so much the greater. He was pale ; and it was remarked, 
that instead of casting around the assembly his accustomed slow 
and scrutinizing glance, he seemed in haste to bury himself in 
his arm-chair. 

In spite of the silence established in the chapel by his presence, 
it was still easy to perceive something unusual in all looks, and 
that indescribable something in all attitudes which betrays agi- 
tation beneath immovability, and noise beneath stillness. The ser- 
vice commenced. Never was an assembly more devout in appear- 
ance, less so in reality ; never had the lugubrious chants of Good- 
Friday appeared to make so much impression, and never had 
they in reality made less. At the most they contributed to 
keep alive in all hearts that internal tremor which seizes one at 
the approach of a great event, or at the theatre, upon the ap- 
proach of the denouement. 

This denouement was the sermon. 

But what did any one know of this ? Who had said that 
this would not be an ordinary sermon, and that the king would 
not be free to go away just as he had come? Who had told 
this ? Nobody. They had thought the king would not come ; 


296 


THE PREACHER 


and we know how near they were being right, they guessed that 
the sermon contained a storm, and we have seen whether they 
were mistaken. By dint of studying the variations of the royal 
atmosphere, the courtiers had become surprisingly expert in seiz- 
ing and interpreting them, — like those old seamen of whom one 
might almost say, that they do not feel, but see the wind. And 
then, on this occasion they had not been reduced to reason from 
mere shadows. We have seen that all the court knew of Bos- 
suet’s nocturnal visit to Bourdaloue. The king’s reluctance to 
come to chapel, his lateness, his manner, — all this did not seem 
to them suflBciently explained by the absence of Mine, de Mon- 
tespan. In short, Bourdaloue had not yet ascended the pulpit, 
before everybody was certain that he was going to strike a great 
blow ; if some had doubted it before he made his appearance, his 
agitation, his paleness, could no longer leave them in doubt. 

It was not that he was still afraid. So long as the uncertainty 
had remained, and he had been obliged to struggle against the 
unfortunate desire, — entirely mechanical, — not to be obliged to 
preach before the king, — he had suffered horribly ; the king once 
arrived, he felt himself quite another person. — Who has not felt 
this ? When the danger is uncertain, the bravest are uneasy ; if 
^it is there, — visible, palpable, and all escape is impossible, the 
most timid will become bold. And besides, this word timid did 
not apply to Bourdaloue ; it had required a peculiar combination 
of circumstances to throw him into the distress in which we have 
seen him. 

But he seemed destined to experience on this day all the pos- 
sible alternations of weakness and strength, courage and hesita- 
tion. Although accustomed to command an audience eight or 
ten times as numerous, he found himself at this moment the 
object of too lively, too piercing an attention, not to be confound- 
ed by it. If he had suspected nothing, perhaps he would have 


4ND THE KING. 


297 


perceived nothing, or w >uld have attributed tni.® to an increased 
interest in himself, in his discourse ; but how could he deceive 
himself ? He could not even take upon him to have recourse to 
the method which he ordinarily used with success against the 
treacheries of his memory, — that of closing his eyes. In spite 
of himself, he sought to read in those of the king the effect of 
his slightest words, and as the king on his side only listened with 
uneasiness and distrust, it was impossible that a little of this agi- 
tation should not pierce through the usual impassability of his 
features. It was a curious sight to observe these two men, both 
so skilful in impressing others, thus mutually impressing and fas- 
cinating each other. 

The king was very nearly vanquished. 

Bourdaloue was still in his exordium, when a desperate temp- 
tation, a bewildering idea took possession of his mind. Here he 
is in the pulpit ; he has no more counsels or orders to receive ; 
he is his own master. What is to hinder him from wot deliver- 
ing this horrible peroration, the cause of all his distraction ! He 
will not take up his former one again, oh no ! That is decidedly 
too inadmissible, and more so at this time than ever. I have 
reason for consolation ^' — for shame ! Never, no, never will he 
say to the king any thing like that or approaching it. He will 
not recite that then, it is settled. He will be able to find a few 
words to replace it ; he will improvise, if he must ; he will finish 
as he best can, — and everybody will be satisfied. 

And every time that he arrived at this condusion he seemed 
to hear sounding from the depths of his heai t these words of 
Claude ; “ Except God !” 

“ Yes,” he thought, “ except God, — and Bossuet, and Montau- 
sier, and the queen, and my conscience, — and some from piety, 
and some from curiosity, — and the king himself, — the king.— 
Ashamed of having trembled, he will console himself only by 


THE PREACHER 


%98 

despiang him who made him tremble — for nothing — and who 
did not dare to go on — 

And the sermon went on its way ; and all this was whirling 
through the head of the orator ; and the nearer the moment drew 
when he would be forced to decide, the more terrified he was 
not to know which side to take. Twenty times he was on the 
point of losing the thread of his discourse ; twenty times he 
would have lost it had his memory been less tenacious ; if like 
a circus rider standing upon a galloping horse, the very rapid- 
ity of his course had not tended to preserve his equilibrium. 
But at the least shock, the least phrase omitted or changed, 
all would have been broken, upset, lost. He felt this, and it gave 
only the more vehemence to his utterance. Never had he been 
in reality so absent in mind, never in appearance so devout. 
In the arts, a power once discovered, you may apply it to every- 
thing ; in eloquence, once agitated, all your words receive from 
this fact a new life, even when the subject of which you speak 
has nothing, or scarcely anything in common with the primitive 
cause of this agitation. Agitated, alarmed, so long as emotion 
and terror do not go so far as to seal your lips, you are eloquent. 

And thus, he was most eloquent. Since the close of the exor- 
dium the greater part of the hearers were his own ; but he was 
still making vain efibrts to be theirs. The events of the day, — 
the preoccupations of the next day, — the sublime thought of the 
Passion, began to absorb all, and he, who knew so well how to 
discover all the miseries in the obscurest folds of these hearts 
which opened at his voice, — he allowed these miseries to fill and 
to gnaw his own. Oh ! for a moment of solitude ! For a cor- 
ner to pray in ! to place this insupportable burden at the foot of 
the cross ! But no, he must go on ; he must drag it to the 
end. He is in the middle of his discourse. He draws near the 
cKoe; — and he does not yet know what he shall do. Another 


AND THE KING. 


299 


page, and hesitation will no longer be possi de. Another phrase 
only, — two more words. His head grows dizzy, his knees totter 
beneath him. He dashes on blindly ; with a concentrated vio- 
lence he lets go the first words which come into his mouth. All 
is lost ! It is not the peroration of Claude ; it is his own ; the 
one over which he has groaned ; the one which he wished to 
efiace with his tears and his blood. It is as if the devil had 
whispered it in his ear. 

But suddenly he stops, and grows pale. As he turned his 
head, in order at least to spare himself the shame of pronouncing 
before the king’s very face, these praises which seem like burn- 
ing coals upon his lips, — what does he see there, in that corner ? 
A grave, motionless, majestic countenance, which is distinctly 
defined against the long folds of a black mantle. 

It is he, — the Protestant ! It is Claude ! 

Bourdaloue is annihilated. He slowly bows his head ; he 
clasps his hands. 

But oh wonder ! he rises again. — The fire of his eyes breaks 
forth again ; his head is upright and steady ; his voice vibrates. 
— It is your turn, Louis le Grand ! — 

No one save Claude, had perceived the motive of the inter- 
ruption, no one imagined it to be anything else but an ora- 
torical ruse ; but the movement had been too natural, too true, 
too terrible, not to have a prodigious eftect. The orator had 
perceived, as by the i*ay of a flash of lightning, all the advan- 
tage he was going to derive from it. 

“ I have^ nevertheless, reason to console myself — ” It was at 
these words that Bourdaloue had perceived Claude, and that 
he had risen to fall no more. 

“ To console myself,” he repeated, slowly. “ Ah my breth- 
ren, what was I about to say ! Is it at this hour, when the 
cross is being erected, that I can have the courage to praise ? 


300 


THE PREACHER 


Does not this blood, which is about to flow for all men, cry 
out to me that all are sinners ? And shall I dare, I, to make one 
exception ! No, sire, no ! I will not set you apart ; I would 
not wish that your diadem should prevent your receiving to- 
day upon your brow, like the humblest of your subjects, — 
some drops of the blood which purifies and saves ! — ” 

The way was open ; he had now but to go on. And not only 
had the orator decided to omit nothing, but further, — sure hence- 
forth of himself and his courage, he was in no haste to reach 
the pages of Claude. It was with a kind of pride and pleasure, 
that he dwelt upon the idea by which he had begun to approach 
them. 

“Wo !” he continued, “ wo to him who should keep out of 
this multitude for which Jesus died! Wo to the king who 
should imagine that there are two roads to heaven, one fa/ 
himself, and one for his people. — Or rather yes, yes, there are 
two. — But the narrowest, the most rugged, the one in which 
aid and pity is the most needed, is that in which walk those 
men who are surrounded with so many dangers, so many temp- 
tations. It is yours, oh kings, oh ye gods of the earth 1” 

And Bourdaloue then went on to the illusions under which a 
king labors, as to the nature and extent of his vices. He wheeled 
around his prey ; the circle grew smaller and smaller ; it was 
solemn, — terrible. — There was many an old soldier present, whose 
heart had never before throbbed so quickly. 

At last Bourdaloue gave place to Claude. The lion ceased to 
turn, and walked straight up to the enemy. At the first words 
of this fresh passage, which, although admirably brought in, yet 
contrasted somewhat with the preceding phrases, — an impercep- 
tible shudder ran through the assembly. Happily, the king cast 
down his eyes, which somewhat relieved the agonies of those 
present. If he had but frowned, they would have wished the 


AND THE KING. 


301 


earth to swallow them, and we will not answer for what the ora- 
tor himself would have said or done. But the king did not 
move. After having cast down his eyes, he also bent down his 
head. 

It was because once caught in the double net of religion and 
eloquence, he felt that debate was not longer possible. People 
of his temper do nothing by halves. That subjugation which had 
so long taken place to the impure despotism of a mistress, was 
in this moment transferred to the sacred despotism of faith, 
morals, and genius. Besides, in lending his weapons to Bour- 
daloue, Claude had been careful not to mingle with them any of 
those irritating darts which annoy rather than kill, and which 
by exasperating the enemy, only restore him all his power. He 
knew that a word, a single word, is enough to destroy the effect 
of twenty reasons. A combat of pin-pricks would have appeared 
to him unworthy of the pulpit, and imprudent, above all, with a 
man like the king. Blows from a heavy club alone would an- 
swer. 

If the chapel had been peopled with statues, the silence could 
not have been more profound, nor the immovability more perfect. 
From ' time to time a sound was audible, like that of a stifled 
sob ; it appeared to proceed from the seats of the queen. — But 
who would have dared to raise his head, or turn it to see if it 
was her ? — It was the queen in fact. Her tearful eyes, wandered 
from the king to Bourdaloue, from Bourdabue to Bossuet. The 
latter might have seen her, but he did not, his eyes, his soul were 
elsewhere. He had scarcely seen her when he re-entered the 
ehapel, and taken the place from which her supplicating look had 
driven him before. It was only at the close that their eyes met, 
and that he read in those of the queen, a gratitude, of which, in 
fact, he deserved the greater part. 

Bourdaloue saw nothing, heard nothing. His eager eyes never 
26 


302 


THE PREACHER AND T H E3 KING. 


quitted the king ; — ^he held him with his glance, as with his 
words and gestures. There was no longer the slightest trace of 
indecision, of terror. He dashed headlong into passages which 
he had most dreaded beforehand ; he pronounced with a vigorous 
assurance, those words which he had trembled at in reading ; 
and like a soldier, intoxicated with noise and powder, he rejoiced 
in his triumph, and thirsted for warfare and victory. And now 
Louis, frown if thou wilt ; raise thyself ; — raise thine eyes. — • 
What is that to him ? He knows, he feels that he has that which 
will make thee lower them again. 

But the more complete the victory appeared, the more towards 
the close, he felt another uneasiness increase. This discourse of 
which the triumph is no longer doubtful, — he is not really the 
author of it, since the principal passage in it is not his own ; 
and commendations will be showered upon him. — He cannot ac- 
cept them. Did his conscience permit him, Claude is there. 
Refuse them ? But how ? By naming the author ? That would 
be almost a scandal. Without naming him ? People would 
lose themselves in conjectures, and the sermon itself would be 
forgotten for the mystery connected with it. 

The end of the sermon came before he had decided. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


THE SERMON IS AT LENGTH OVER. 

Twenty minutes after, the services were over. They had been 
shortened as much as possible. The grand almoner, the Cardi- 
nal de Bouillon, was not a little in haste to escape from the con- 
straint and emotions of such a scene. 

The king frequently stopped, as he left the chapel, in a little 
saloon contiguous, which was for this reason commonly called 
the king's sacristy. Few persons took the liberty of following 
him here ; it was a sort of familiar reunion, which, indeed, never 
lasted more than a quarter of an hour at most. On sermon 
days, the discourse which had just been pronounced, generally 
formed the subject of conversation. 

It was not so on this day, as may well he imagined. If the 
king appeared very little disposed to speak of what he had just 
heard, the people of his suite were still less disposed to ask him 
what he thought of it. They were even considerably embarrassed 
as to how they should act. If they remained silent, it would be 
as much as to say to the king that they had seen all, understood 
all. It was better to speak ; but what should they say ? The 
Duke de la Feuillade made an effort, and with the courage of 
desperation said : — 

“ How excessively warm ! (two months earlier he would have 
said, how excessively cold !) Would one think that we are only 
in the beginning of April ?” 


304 


THE PREACHER 


No answer. 

“It is not so warm here,” he added judiciously, “But in thr 
chapel the crowd — ” 

“ What hour is it asked the king. 

“ The hour that pleases your Majesty.”^ 

The poor duke had not his equal for insipid and mean adula 
tion. But this time he had his trouble for his pains. The kin£ 
drew out his watch, casting at him a look of contempt. Deci 
dedly the sermon was taking effect. But where ? On the sur 
face or in his heart ? God alone could know this as yet. 

There was a silence. 

“ Is he still there ?” asked the king, a moment after. 

“ Father Bourdaloue, sire ?” 

“ Yes. Bring him to me.” 

There was a crowd in the sacristy. Bourdaloue would wil 
lingly have escaped, but this was the usage. Louis XIV. being 
accustomed to compliment his preachers when they had particu- 
larly distinguished themselves, the courtiers were always in haste 
to do the same, even before him. Besides, any preacher liked by 
the king, stood a chance of being his confessor some day, and 
there was not a duke or peer so wrapped up in his own great- 
ness, that he was not enchanted to get into the good graces of a 
future confessor of the king. 

The Marquis de Fenelon had already addressed to the preach- 
er, not his compliments, for he said that compliments were only 
for lawyers and actors, but his congratulations upon his courage, 
and thanks for the good which he had done. Bourdaloue re- 
ceived them with a constrained and embarrassed air ; and when 
Bossuet also approached, not without diflSculty on account of the 
crowd, he said in a low voice, extending his hand to Bossuet : 

“ I have something to say to you, gentlemen. Leave me, I 

* Historical. “ The earthquake which the king felt at Marly” says 


AND THE KING. 


305 


conjure you ; leave me — these felicitations distress mel As soon 
as we are out of this—” 

They looked at him with astonishment. It was at this mo- 
ment that he was summoned in the king’s name. Claude had 
rem lined to examine the splendors of this place, which it was 
little probable he would ever revisit. While crossing the chapel, 
Bourdaloue perceived him, and seemed at first to wish to avoid 
him. He hastened his pace, then slackened it, at length going 
straight up to him, he said ; 

“ Come, come !” 

Claude was standing before a painting, and as he turned around 
in amazement, Bourdaloue repeated : 

“ Come, I tell you, come — do not keep me, the king is waiting. 
Place yourself there.” It was at the door of the king’s sacristy. 

In the meantime, Bossuet and Monsieur de Fenelon had fol- 
lowed Bourdaloue. Already much surprised to see the minister 
m the chapel, they were naturally still more so, at what their 
friend had said to him, and above all, at the peculiar manner in 
which he had summoned him. 

“ W^hat is it ?” they asked Claude. 

“ But, gentlemen, it is rather for me to ask ; I do not know.” 

“ Is it that Father Boudaloue wished to present you to the king ?” 

“ To the king ! Me ? Is the king there ?” 

“ Did you not know it ?” 

“ No, not at all. Present me to the king! to the king!” 

He fell from the clouds, but he began to guess. 

“ Well, my father,” the king had said to Bourdaloue, in a 
much more easy tone than one would have expected to hear al- 
ready, “ you ought to be satisfied, it seems to me. Mine, de 
Montespan is at Clagny — ” 

Dangeau somewhere. Precisely as if the kmg had been the only one to 
feel it, or as if the earthquake had been performed in his lionor. 

26 * 


306 


THE PREACHER 


“ Yes, sire. But God would be still better satisfied if Clagny 
were seventj* leagues from Versailles.”* 

“ What ! you distrust me still ? — ” 

What should he answer ? Happily the king did not allow 
him time. 

“ I thank you for your sermon,” he resumed. 

Under this apparent sincerity which he himself perhaps be- 
lieved sincere, it was the old man which returned. The real 
subject of his satisfaction was not that the sermon had been good 
or powerful ; it was, alas ! that it was finished, and that the trial 
was over. 

And as Bourdaloue bowed with a somewhat incredulous air • 
— “ yes,” continued the king, “ yes, — I thank you. I never 
heard any thing so — so — Never — The close pai-ticularly — ” 

Bourdaloue started. 

“ But calm yourself,” resumed the king, who began to remark 
his agitation, and grew firmer in consequence. “Do I look 
displeased 2” 

And he did not look so, in fact. 

“ It was your duty — ^you have fulfilled it. But what a dis- 
course ! what eloquence ! — ” ^ 

A fresh movement ; fresh praises. The king had evidently 
resumed the upper hand. He was enchanted to spend all the 
emotion which the sermon had caused him in praising the style, 
— in order not to be obliged to speak again of the subject ; and 
he took, or feigned to take every movement of Bourdaloue foi 
modesty, and only praised him the more. 

“You must give it to me,” he said at length ; “ you must give 
me this peroration. I wish to read it again. I wish — 

“ Sire—” 

“ You would refuse 2 — But I do not see — 


* Historical. 


AND THE KING, 


307 


“ This portion of the sermon — 

« Well «” 

“ Is not by me.” 

“ And by whom, then ? 

Bourdaloue went quickly to the door. — “Come,” he said. 
“ Come—” 

“ How !” cried the king, on perceiving Bossiiet ; “ it was by 
Monsieur de Condom ! — 

“ No, sire, by Monsieur Claude. And I have the honor to 
present him to you.” 

Ten years afterwards, Louis XIV. sent Claude a purse of an 
hundred louis, and one of his valets-de-chambre to serve him. 
It is true that it was the next day after the revocation of the 
Edict of Nantes, and that Claude was quitting France never to 
return. 


• i 


TWO EVENINGS 


AT THE HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 

MARCH 1644. 

It is said that a young abbe who promised to be a great 
preacher, was introduced at the hotel de Rambouillet by the 
Marquis de Feuquieres. It was proposed to him to extemporize 
a sermon on a text chosen at hazard. He accepted ; but the 
evening being too far advanced, the thing was put oiF till the 
next day. At this point we commence the relation of the fol- 
lowing occurrences.* 

* Although this narrative, published in 1839, has been reprinted by 
a niunber of journals, the author thought that the readers of “ The 
Preacher and the King” would perhaps be glad to find it here. 1644 
should precede 1675, but as the two works are entirely distinct, there 
was no impropriety in placing the most importai\t 


CHAPTER I. 


BOSSUET. 

An hour afterwards our young man had returned to the Col- 
lege of Navarre, and was walking up and down his cell with 
long strides. A half extinguished lamp cast its vacillating rays 
upon three chairs, a bed, and a table, all of them covered with 
books and papers. An icy wind poured down the chimney and 
through the window ; the ashes from the hearth flew about the 
chamber ; the papers fluttered about ; the leaves of the open 
books seemed turned over by invisible fingers. But nevertheless, 
he dreamed neither of closing his window, nor reviving his fire. 
There are moments when man the animal^ no longer exists. 
The soul disencumbers itself of that narrow seam* which unites 
it with the body, and communicates, so to speak, to this dull 
companion of its captivity all its lightness, all its invulnerability. 

After a long silence ; “ Why is not to-morrow here !” he cried, 
stamping his foot. “ Still twenty mortal hours ! The idiots ! 
‘ It is late^^ they said. To deprive me of such a triumph ! — ” 

He bit his lips at this word, and turned around quickly, as if 
to assure himself that no one had heard him ; then in a lower 
voice repeated, “ Well, yes, — triumph. Why not ? In a sudden 
efibrt, am I not always sure of myself ? Have I not made the 
trial twenty times ? I should have succeeded — all would now 


* Montaigne. 


312 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


be finished — but to-morrow — to-morrow ! To-morrow I shall 
have had time to measure the danger ; to-morrow I shall trem- 
ble, — to-morrow I shall stammer — 

And he seated himself with a shudder, and with a look of an- 
guish he scanned this interminable day, which he would have 
wished to annihilate at the price of a year of his life ; and his 
imagination retraced all the scenes of the evening, — the saloon 
with its thousand lights, — its crowd of noble ladies, and great 
lords, and beaux esprits. He pictured to himself all these eyes 
fixed upon him, all these countenances ready, at the least blun- 
der, to break into a malicious and discouraging smile ; all these 
authors disposed to criticize him if he succeeded, to overwhelm 
him if he failed. In vain he endeavored to remind himself with 
with what benevolence he had been received, with what interest 
his talents had been spoken of ; in vain he sought in his mem- 
ory for the compliments full of sincerity and indulgence which 
so many great people had addressed to him, — particularly the 
Prince de Conde,^ as well as Monsieur de Montausier, future 
son-in-law of Mme. de Rambouillet, and director of these soirees of 
which the beautiful Julie was the soul. It was in vain ; he al- 
ways found himself followed by two things equally calculated to 
torture him ; on the one hand the dread of a failure ; on the 
other the enthusiastic inspiration which he trembled to feel grow 
calmer. 

He was, in fact, possessed of an ardent desire, or rather let us 
say, with an insatiable need of success and glory. A crowd of 
little triumphs had signalized his earliest studies. At the college 
of Dijon, his native place, all the prizes had been his ; in the 
college of Navarre at Paris, he had just sustained, at the age of 
seventeen years, a philosophico-theological thesis, of which the 
whole city had talked ; the famous Doctor Nicholas Cornet was 
* The great Conde, then Duke d’Engbien. 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


313 


proud to count him among his disciples, and had perhaps allowed 
this to be too evident. Thus, dreams of greatness and fortune 
pursued him in all his labors, and even into the most insignificant 
actions of his life. Never, for instance, had he been seen to mim 
gle in the sports i£ his companions, scarcely ever was he seen to 
laugh. — Student, he was a philosopher ; sub-deacon, he was a 
prelate ; but he was already one of the small number of men who 
are able to gain pardon for not acting like others. 

Do not imagine, however, that the worship of fame was his 
only religion, and that in embracing the ecclesiastical state, he had, 
like so many others, only dreamed of the dignities and revenues 
of the church. lie possessed piety, and even a great deal of 
piety. While dreaming of a bishopric, of the Roman purple, of 
the tiara perhaps, — he labored to become a good pastor. But 
he closely associated his own triumphs with those of the Church ; 
he found himself before the very altar, imploring God, as if by 
instinct, to give him the courage and power to command his age ; 
he wished, like St. Bernard in his time, to be the oracle of the 
church, and the light of the papal power. It was with a pro- 
found conviction that he devoted his genius to the service of 
Catholicism. But, once launched into controversy, the cause of 
the church became a little too much his cause, and he claimed 
in advance, a great part of the victories which he hoped to make 
it achieve. It may be judged, after this, what would be his agita- 
tion and anguish in the situation in which we have just described 
him. He saw before him an opportunity of gathering more laurels 
perhaps, than in ten years of the seminary or of priesthood. 

Midnight was about to sound, when a gust of wind completed 
the extinguishing of his lamp. The darkness withdrew him 
from his reverie ; he perceived that he was cold ; and as if his 
body had waited for the permission of his mind, before it yielded 
to nature, his limbs began to tremble, his teeth to chatter, and 

21 


314 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


the window resisted his benumbed hands for a long time.- — He 
went to bed. His body frozen, his head on fire, he sought sleep 
for a long time, and found only that feverish drowsiness, more 
tormenting even than sleeplessness. His ears were filled with 
strange noises. Sometimes the whispers of the saloon at Ram- 
bouillet ; then an endless series of barbarous syllogisms, sad re- 
mains of Master Cornet’s lessons ; sometimes the organ, some- 
times the bell of Notre Dame ; then the chapel of the Louvre, 
the king, the court, the coveted pulpit, and a sermon to be de- 
livered, of which he could not remember a single word ; then 
Notre Dame again; mysterious chants, clouds of incense, a pon- 
tifical high mass, — and the poor abbe saw himself, at the right 
of the altar, the mitre on his head, and the crosier in his hand, 
under the crimson canopy of the archbishop. 

Two of his friends ran in to him ; hearing him move, they 
feared he was ill. They woke him, not without diflSculty. 
Somewhat confused, he assured them that ho was well, and 
thanked them for their care : “ It is only a bad dream,” he said, 
forcing a smile ; but for fear of renewing the same scene, ha 
rose, and went to reading some chapters of the Sacred Scriptures. 
Alas ! these inspired pages, usually so efficacious in calming the 
inquietudes of life, only increased his at this moment. Each 
verse that he read, he imagined as his text for the next day, and 
began to meditate upon it, not as a Christian, seeking nourish- 
ment for his soul, but as a preacher looking out for his points 
and ideas. Therefore he soon shut the book, and falling on his 
knees, he besought the Ruler of hearts to send down into his, 
more calm and humility. But it was in vain that he struggled 
to ask nothing more ; another wish filled his soul ; another word 
hovered upon his lips, and after having repulsed it for a long time, 
he cried with violence, “ My God ! my God ! grant that I may 
succeed !” 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


315 


Let us now transfer ourselves to the cabinet of Monseigneur 
» ierre de Gondi, Archbishop of Paris. Seated before a good fire, 
with his breviary in his hand, the old man was conversing with 
one of his secretaries. “ Apropos,” he said, after a pause. “ Has 
this young abbe been summoned 2” 

“ Yes, Monseigneur, he is coming.” “ Good. I have for a 
long time wished to see if he is equal to all that is said of him. 
But I was waiting for an opportunity ; I did not wish him to be- 
lieve that I sent for him from curiosity. They say he has more 
need of humility than encouragement. We shall see. Go and 
say that he is to come in as soon as he arrives — ” 

The secretary went out, and the archbishop took from one of 
the shelves of his library three or four thick books, which he be- 
gan to turn over. To judge from the dust which covered them, 
you would not have been able to doubt a moment, that it had 
been many a long year since Monseigneur had disturbed their re- 
pose. When the door was opened, he put them precipitately 
into their places, and took his seat again in his arm-chair. 

Upon the reception of the archbishop’s message, our subdeacon 
had not doubted that it had something to do with his purposed 
extemporization. A new torment. What did Monseigneur 
want? To permit or forbid it? To encourage or condemn? 
He exhausted himself in conjectures. And, besides, he did not 
himself know what to desire or fear. Sometimes trembling lest 
he should fail, he wished that a formal interdict would arrive, 
closing the lists, and honorably terminating his anguish ; some- 
times, become himself again and feeling all his courage revive, 
it was with grief and despair that he apprehended this same 
prohibition. “ He would not have sent for me,” he thought to 
himself, “ to give me an authorization for which I did not ask, 
he would be contented with letting me go on.” And with diffi- 


316 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


culty he repressed a burning tear. When he was conducted into 
the presence of the archbishop, he scarcely breathed. 

“ Welcome, sir,” said the prelate; and he made a sign to him 
to take a seat. Then, without looking at him, and stopping after 
each part of his sentence ; “ I learn that to-day — at Mme. de 
Rambouillet’s — you are to extemporize a sermon. I confess that 
the thing appeared to me — singular. I do not exactly wish — to 
oppose it — ” 

An enormous weight was removed from the young man’s heart, 

“ But,” resumed M. de Gondi, “ have you well considered what 
/ou are going to do ? A sermon in a saloon ! A sermon in 
olace of the sonnets and madrigals which abound every evening 
at the hotel de Rambouillet ! You risk scandalizing one party 
and making the others laugh at your expense, and, what is worse, 
at the expense of religion — ” 

“ Monseigneur — 

“ Yes ; I understand; you are going to tell me that it was not 
you who proposed it. I believe you ; but — ^you are not sorry 
that it has been proposed.” 

The young man blushed. 

“We will leave the question of humility,” continued the arch- 
bishop ; “ it is a matter entirely between yourself and your con- 
science. To return to what I was saying ; this is a thing so un- 
heard of, that if you fail, you will never be pardoned for having 
attempted it. There are a great many vei-ses of mediocrity re- 
cited at Mme. de Rambouillet’s, which are, nevertheless, not ill 
received, but as to your sermon, there is no medium; if it is not 
a triumph it is a failure. Have you considered all this well ?” 

“ Perhaps not sufficiently. Monseigneur ; however, — if I may 
venture to say so, — this reflection — 

“ Well 8” 

“ I think that I should havQ left it behind. True, I ha^ e never 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


317 


yet had the honor of appearing in the pulpit, and it must be seven 
or eight years before I can do so — but — I have practised a great 
deal—’’ 

“ And with success, I am told,” interrupted the prelate. 

Our young man had already recovered most of his confidence ; 
this little praise completed its restoration. The conversation 
gradually became more familiar. M. de Gondi questioned him 
upon a great number of subjects ; and they even got so far as a 
little discussion upon some passage of Saint Augustine. It was 
not for nothing that the archbishop had turned over his old fo- 
lios. He quoted, quoted again, but although this was more than 
enough to induce the belief that he was a deep student of theol- 
ogy, it was not enough to disconcert his adversary, who although 
taken at unawares, opposed phrase to phrase and author to 
author with an admirable art. At each new answer, he dis- 
played the judgment of his mind and the vivacity of his ima- 
gination. He spoke of the human heart like an old man ; of 
eloquence, like a finished orator; of the evangelical ministry 
like a priest grown gray in the pastoral office. M. de Gondi 
having observed that a true preacher ought to propose to himself 
to affect more than to please ; — 

“ Be easy, Monseignftur, be easy on that score. I intend to re- 
member it this, evening. Let God but aid me, and there will be 
tears in the saloon of Mine, de Bambouillet!” 

And his physiognomy assumed, at these words, such an expres- 
sion of grandeur and authority, that the good archbishop, with 
his eyes fixed upon him, found not a word to say. He perceived 
it, and blushed still more than the first time. 

“Pardon me,” he said, casting down his eyes; “I forget to 
whom I am speaking. You must have found me very pi-esump- 
tuous — 

“ Courage, my son, courage !” said M. de Gondi ; “ I like this 
27 * 


318 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


impetuos ty in a young man. In nomine Demosthenis et Cice^ 
ronis, eg) te absolvo I' And he accompanied these words with 
the gesture which the priests employ in pronouncing ths usual 
form of absolution. The young man bent his knee, kissed the 
prelate’s hand, and retired. They were both satisfied. 

Let us be pardoned these two excursions away from the hotel 
de Rambouillet. They were necessary in order to form some 
acquaintance with the hero of our evening. 

Mine, de Rambouillet, a woman of true piety, but a little scru- 
pulous, scarcely approved of what w^as going to take place in hei 
house ; she was very near finding it scandalous. However, not 
venturing to oppose the almost unanimous wish of the company, 
she endeavored at least to save appearances. It was decided 
that the ladies should dress simply, that the violins, (for they 
had music every evening,) should be countermanded ; and final- 
ly, that neither prose nor verse should be read all the evening. 
She sent for a hundred straw chairs from the neighborino; church, 
and two workmen were occupied during the day upon something 
which was covered with a cloth, and bore no bad resemblance to 
a pulpit. On the right was placed a large crucifix, and in a 
cabinet transformed into a sacristy, a white surplice awaited the 
orator. 

The assembly was quite complete at an early hour. The 
'lahitues of the house would not on any account have missed so 
lovel a spectacle ; those who were absent the evening before, 
had been informed by M. de Feuquieres of the glorious trial to 
which his protege w^as about to be submitted. The Prince de 
Conde had brought all his friends, and the Vicompte de Tureime, 
although a Protestant, had arrived among the first, after having 
well assured himself, however, that there was to be no mass. 

In this age, high society passed easily, and without any scru- 
ples, from worldly pleasures to religious exercises ; in spite of 


HOTE'. DE RAMBOUILLET. 


319 


the saying, they mana^red without much trouble 'at the same 
time to serve God and the world. It was doubtful if the best 
part were always given to God ; but, nevertheless, people went to 
mass before dressing themselves for the ball ; and managed, be- 
tween two fetes, to put on all the exterior of a conventual life. 
Many persons did not even content themselves with externals, 
but contrived to be, if it were but for an hour or two, deeply and 
truly pious ! 

The latter, however, were not the majority, in our company. 
There was less loud talking than usual ; but here stopped all 
the seriousness which it was thought proper to affect. The 
change made in the arrangement of the saloon had at first con- 
tributed to preserve a certain gravity ; Mme. de Rambouillet 
taking the thing seriously, they were afraid of displeasing her. 
But habit carried the day ; the usual furniture was remembered, 
and this disguise, so far from preparing the audience for religious 
emotions, caused the secret risibility of all the young people 
present. The orator himself did not behold these singular prep- 
arations without surprise, and was only tolerably pleased with 
them. It was no longer a saloon, but still less was it a church. 
Never was a sermon waited for in so ill-disposed a frame of 
mind. 

Hat in hand, M. de Montausier went through the crowd, and 
received a number of tickets. A new subject for amusement ; 
they imagined a beadle taking up a collection, and the grave col- 
lector, into whose head also the idea came, had trouble enough 
to preserve his gravity. “ For the poor !” he said in a low voice, 
presenting the hat to a lady. “ For the poor in spii it,” added a 
malicious wit, and stifled laughter was heard all along that side, 
of the saloon. Besides, from certain glances which were ex- 
changed during the collection, it would have been easy to under- 
stand that a conspiracy was se" on foot against the door orator, 


320 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


and tnat they had agreed to embarrass him by obscure and diffi- 
cult subjects . Disappointment was accordingly depicted on more 
than one countenance when a lady drew from the hat these 
beautiful and simple words from Ecclesiastes ; “ Vanity of vani- 
ties^ all is vanity^ 

The orator had gone out ; he was summoned. He took the 
paper ; his hand trembled. But he had scarcely glanced at it, 
when a burning color flushed his cheek, and he half raised his 
eyes to heaven. The most malicious did not fail to attribute 
this movement to a feeling of terror ; but those nearest to him 
could easily read in his features an emotion of joy and hope. 
He breathed at length. There was no longer any fear ; he was 
certain of himself. He had already fathomed all the riches of 
his subject. Glory and nothingness, pride and ruin, the delights 
of the world, the horror of the tomb, this sublime and terrible 
contrast so rich in instructions, in pictures, in developments of 
every sort, — this he had perceived ; this he was going to set 
forth with all the freedom of genius to this crowd of rich volup- 
tuaries. What a subject ! Could he have made a better choice 
himself? Accordingly, although a quarter of an hour was given 
him for preparation, he directed his steps immediately to the pul- 
pit, and ascended with unfaltering tread. People looked at each 
uther in silence ; this already was more than had been expected. 
The laughers ceased laughing ; the others felt their hearts beat. 

He had, however, the wisdom not to abandon himself from 
the beginning to the impulses of his soul. “ Fire in the exor- 
dium^ is but a fire of strawf said Dumarsais a century after- 
wards. The audience not having seemed to pay any great atten- 
tion to the sublimity of the text, it would have been very hazard- 
ous to present to them ex abruyto, such an idea in its terrifying 
nakedness ; there is but one step from the grand to the pedantic, 
and always a slippery one for a young man. He commenced, 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


321 


then, with the greatest simplicity. “ Religion loves to present 
to U3 the picture of our miseries ; she would convince us 
that nothing in this life really deserves our care and trouble ; 
and thus, that all our earthly affairs ought to be subordinate to 
the great thought of eternity — ” Such was the idea of his ex- 
ordium. Nothing brilliant, few or no figures, nothing ambitious, 
nothing, in fact, which seemed to aim at effect ; and yet all were 
struck and impressed. The preacher’s voice was calm, grave, 
majestic, his gestures rare and dignified. It was evident that to 
him this was not merely an intellectual trial ; his words proceed- 
ed from the depths of his soul, and all that comes from the soul 
is eloquent. Gradually, curiosity became attention, and attention 
interest ; adieu to the saloon, with its gay reminiscences. Peo- 
ple were obliged, in spite of themselves, to believe that they were 
in a church, and the Ave Maria was said with no less devotion 
than at Notre Dame. (The Ave Maria is the obligatory conclu- 
sion of every Catholic exordium.) Perhaps the orator was one 
of those who put the least devotion into its repetition. Not that 
he did not endeavor to pray ; not that de did not feel how much 
he had to bless God for so happy a beginning ; but his mind 
was elsewhere, and he could not help casting a penetrating and 
joyful glance over his audience, of which I cannot better give 
an idea, than by comparing it to that of the greatest captain of 
modern times, when in the midst of a battle he beholds the success 
of some of his gigantic manoeuvres, and cries, “ They are mine !” 

And, in fact, his audience w'as his own. On then, young man ! 
Intoxicate thyself with this glorious despotism of speech ; it is the 
purest and most beautiful of the prerogatives of genius. On, and 
now strike fearlessly, heavy blows, for thou dost not combat alone. 
TLa < rator who sj^eaks of death, always finds in this very thought 
a redoubtable auxiliary. His power grows in proportion to the 
helplessness of those who listen to him ; each one is an actor 


322 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


with him ; each one puts his hand to the lugubrious epic, and 
trembling, furnishes to its writer his tribute of terror and of 
poetry. Speak to me of avarice and sensuality ; thunder against 
calumny, ange^, pride, all that you will, — I will either not listen, 
or say, rubbing my hands, “ What a lesson for such an one of 
my friends or neighbors !” But let the subject be death, then it 
is another thing ; then mea res agitur ; then it is no longer a 
mote in my brother’s eye, but in mine a beam, an enormous beam 
which I cannot take out, and which will infallibly cause me one 
day to fall into the ditch ; then I bow my head, I listen, I tremble. 

The orator kept for the close, the representation of the hopes 
of man, and his importance in the sight of God ; until then he 
wished to see and point out in the human race, only a flock of 
miserable lost beings in the immensity of the universe, which 
death, its infernal shepherd, unceasingly drags towards the 
tomb. This picture has been traced a thousand times since this 
period ; preachers, poets, philosophers, have taken complete pos- 
session of it, and it would be very difficult at the present time to 
rejuvenate it sufficiently to escape the accusation when speaking 
of it, of making a collection of mere commonplaces. ' But the 
eloquence of the pulpit was then in its infancy ; he who passes 
for having been its founder, twas then a school-boy of twelve 
years. The truths of religion had scarcely yet been displayed 
from the French Catholic pulpit, except dried up by pedantry, 
or travestied by bad taste ; they were awaiting a language worthy 
of them, and the saloon of Rambouillet had the first fruits of 
this language, which so many cathedrals had not yet heard. 

But it was not enough for our orator to compel the attention 
of so many rebel mi ids, and, according to the expression of the 
poet, to keep his audi mce hanging upon his Ups ; it was little to 
agitate their souls, he wished also to bruise them. To the feel- 
ing of calm and pleasure which had been caused during the ex- 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


323 


ordiiim by bis pure and solemn diction, soon succeeded th e rapid 
alternations of uneasiness, agitation, and terror, according to all 
the acts of this great drama were represented. 

“ What then is life,” cried the orator, “ if not a pathway, whose 
steep and rugged descent at length terminates in a precipice? 
What is man, if not an unhappy traveller who walks in this ter- 
rible road ? From the very beginning he perceives what must 
meet him at the end. He would turn back, — impossible; he 
would go less rapidly, — impossible. Whether he dream of the 
termination of his journey, or forget it, — whether he sleep or 
wake, whether he weep, or cull flowers, an invincible power 
pushes him on towards the abyss. He arrives on the blink ; he 
would cling to the edge, — he cannot, — he slips, he falls, he rolls, 
— and all must slip, and fall, and roll after him !” 

And now content with having displayed all the phases of this 
lamentable decline, he opens the abyss, and follows human misery 
to its lowest depths. He dragged with him all these great ones 
of the earth, those worshippers of power and glory, to the shadowy 
vaults where was their destined place, and there, raising the mar- 
ble, he sought in the bottom of the tomb for that which death 
leaves thei-e after a few days ; “ that indoscribable something,” 
lie said, “ which has no name in any language, so true it is that 
all dies with man, all, even the funeral terms, by which we would 
designate his miserable remains !” 

It was a sight worth beholding ; all these worthy women, 
with haggard eyes, and palpitating bosoms, as if the angel of 
death had appeared to their eyes, to see them anxiously follow- 
ing all the movements of this young man, whose plebeian name 
would perhaps have made them smile an hour before, and who 
had thus despoiled them, piece by piece of all the gilded trap- 
pings of pride and wealth. 

His cause was gained. The audience demanded quarters ; — 


324 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


it would have been wrong to break the fibres so long and violently 
stretched. These bruised hearts had need ^ of more gentle emo- 
tions, these eyes, full of terror and anguish, had need of the re- 
freshing dew of tears. We will not follow the details of his 
second part. After having depicted man in his misery, he de- 
picted him in his grandeur ; the pitiless delineator of present 
miseries and future annihilation, was succeeded by the prophet of 
a future of glory and unchangeable felicity ; — he closed the 
sepulchre, and opened heaven. All that is most consoling in 
Christianity, all that is most soothing in poetry, were united in 
this last passage. Never had religion appeared more gentle, more 
agreeable, more beautiful, more divine. 

This discourse had been long, but no one had dreamed of com- 
plaining ; or rather no one had perceived it. A profound silence 
had not ceased to reign, and was soon prolonged, contrary to 
custom, for some seconds after the concluding words. M. de 
Feuquieres ran to embrace the orator, and soon there was a crowd 
around the young man. It was a deluge of praises. He replied 
nothing ; after such a success, all words of modesty would have 
seemed affected. 

M. de Turenne had been one of the most agitated, and while 
the others had struggled violently to remain impassible, he, al- 
ways simple and frank, had not feared several times to wipe away 
a tear. He was one of the first to congratulate the orator. The 
latter had not perceived him, and did not suspect the presence of 
a heretic among his audience ; he could not refi ain from a move- 
ment of surprise. “ Yes ! j^arbleu, yes ; — it is I,” said the mar- 
shal ; “ why not ? I take good where I find it. Was that ser- 
mon Catholic ? No. Was it Huguenot ? Not any more so — 
it was Christian. For my part, I think that is the best^ 

“Well, viscount,” said the Prince de Conde, laughing, “will 
that sermon convert you ?” 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


325 


“ But — it might — ” 

“ Oh !” cried the prince and the orator at the same time. 

“ One moment, one moment, gentlemen !” resumed Turenne, 
with a smile. “ How fast you go on ! There is conversion and 
conversion. What I meant to say was this, — that the sermon 
has given me some very good ideas about death, and the vanity 
of the world, two things about which we people of the court and 
battle-field do not often think. You see, my dear D’Enghien, 
that you could easily say so much — ” 

“ Good ! good !” interrupted the prince ; “ but apropcs, sir 
preacher, may one know your name 
“ Bossuet, Monseigneur.” 

28 


t 


CHAPTER II. 


1 




COTIN. 

The next day, nothing was talked of in the c ty but this mag- 
nificent success. Every one asked, “Were you at the hotel de 
Rambouillet yesterday ?” and those who coul. answer “ yes,” 
were happy and proud, as of a great adventure. 

The preacher retired alone and quite late. Every one was in 
bed at the college of Navarre, and he hastened to his cell, de- 
lighted to find no one to whom to relate his triumph ; one does 
not like to praise one’s self, when sure of losing nothing by wait- 
ing. He did not deceive himself. In the morning, before eight 
o’clock, the great news had arrived, and flew rapidly from mouth 
to mouth, from cell to cell throughout the whole building. An 
unaccustomed activity reigned in the corridors and the courts ; 
he heard steps, whisperings, questions, answers which he could 
not seize, but which he guessed from the beatings of his heart. 
He had written to his father, delighted that he could fill his soul 
with such happiness, and enchanted at last to pour out his own ; 
not to have to pretend modesty, to be able at length to say, “ I 
have fought ! I have triumphed ! I have opened to myself the 
way to fortune and glory !” 

The hour for mass had nearly arrived. There was a knock at 
his door : “ Come in,” he said, carelessly ; and it was the head 
master, the grave Nicholas Cornet, who had risen a quarter of an 
hour sooner than usual, to come and embrace his dear Benignus. 

This day was but one long triumph. His professoi-s treated 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


327 


him with the greatest respect; his companions dared not call 
him thou ; before noon he had I know not how many comtes 
and marquises for intimate friends, — all younger sons of noble 
families, and destined also for the church, but who had never yet 
addressed a word to him. It is true that he had been at Paris 
but a short time, and that he had until then been considered 
much less as an orator, or a man of talent, than a scholar, a hard 
student, a plodder as we say. Those more solid than brilliant 
qualities, accompanied, it must be confessed, by manners still 
somewhat provincial, had made no great impression upon these 
Ignorant and idle young nobles, who came to the college of Na- 
varre to pretend to study. BossuetuSj they said. Bos suetus ora- 
tio ; Bossuet is an ox accustomed to the plough. (Authentic.) 
But the ox had become a bull, the digger had finally displayed 
all the gold he had been raking up ; the dawn of a great name 
had begun to break in France ! 

But nevertheless his joy was not unmixed. Faint praise would 
bitterly have mortified him ; too much frightened him. Singu- 
lar destiny of ambition ! Pure or impure in its motive, successful 
or unsuccessful in its efforts, no matter ; it feeds but on anguish. 
His success had been too great, too far above his hopes. He 
calculated with a kind of terror the dangers of a position sud- 
denly become so glorious ; and his friends, — his real friends I 
mean, — did not know what conduct to pursue with him. To 
praise him as much as he deserved, would have been exposing 
him to the danger of being spoiled ; not to praise him, or only 
to praise him with reserve, was to run great risk of being thought 
by him unjust or jealous. 

Do not imagine, however, that detractors were wanting. 
Nearly unanimous beneath the impression of so noble and lofty 
and eloquence, the praises were already fainter on the following 
evening, and as there is nothing easier than to make fools burn 


328 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


what they adore, a single man had enough influence at the hotel 
de Rambouillet, to bring about the strange revolution which we 
are about to relate. 

We do not yet know this man, that is to say, we have as j et 
had no occasion to bring him forward ; for, as to his name, it is 
known, prodigiously known ; far too well known for his glory 
or the repose of his spirit, since it was no less a person than Mon- 
sieur Charles Cotin, chaplain and preacher to the king, chanoine 
of Bayeux, member of the French Academy, and author also of 
I know not how many works, which would sleep at the present 
day,, like his sermons, were it not for the sad immortality which 
Moliere and Boileau have given them. 

We could have shown you, upon the evening of which we 
have spoken, at the extremity of the saloon, a certain abbe, 
whose easy, gallant manners, together with the regards of all 
who surrounded him, would have made you recognize him as 
one of the court, and one of the principal habitues of the house ; 
but as soon as he had no more compliments to give or receive, 
you could have perceived from his sullen and irritated air, and 
certain spiteful and almost angry motions, that no one in the 
world could wish less for the success of the young orator, than 
he. You might have seen him beforehand, doing his best to en- 
courage the little conspiracies got up against him ; you might 
have heard him dictating to some of his neighbors texts from 
which the ablest rhetorician would not have been able to get a 
discourse of half a dozen pages. Then, forced to listen, impressed 
like all the rest, and struggling with himself not to manifest the 
least sign of approbation ; he had gone out precipitately at the 
last word of the discourse, which had, however, not prevented 
his hearing from the antichamber the flattering murmurs and the 
long concert of praises, of which we have endeavored to give an 
idea. This poor abbe was our man ; it was Cotin. 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


329 


The Abbe Cotin Avas not malicious at heart; we may add, 
(and it is the very least we can do before making ourselves merry 
at his expense,") that his absurdities have been much exaggerated. 
As a poet, he made very pretty verses, \hQ prettiest^ perhaps, of this 
epoch, when as yet so few beautiful ones were made ; as a preach- 
er, whatever the author of “ Satires’’’ may say, he was one of the 
most run after of the capital; lastly, as a man of letters, (and 
everybody is ignorant, or pretends to be ignorant of this,) he 
road Hebrew and Syriac ; and understood Greek as few people 
understood it at that time. But the infatuation of his friends, 
the indulgence of the public, and the flatteries of the sex, from 
whom, alas, his robe did not always cause him to turn away his 
eyes, — all had concurred to jDervert his judgment and spoil his 
heart. Since the death of Voitui-e, he shared with Chapolain 
the sovereign authority at the hotel de Rambouillet ; he found 
himself the centre of all that perfumed literature to which the 
century was soon to do justice, and which tilled his little life with 
die most noise and folly possible. Spoiled child of the first so- 
ciety of Paris, might he not think himself a genius ? All the in- 
terest and praise Avhich any other might receive, was a wrong 
done him. 

He went out, then, with death in his soul. This palm which 
he thought he held, and which he had held perhaps, had been 
snatched from him by a preacher of eighteen years ! And it is 
not so bad to be jealous, if one has only the consolation of telling 
one’s self, right or Avrong, that the decree Avas unjust, and that 
the triumph of one’s rival Avas due to error or intrigue. But to 
confess to one’s self that one is vanquished, Avell and justly van- 
quished, — to look for something to criticize and find only Avhat 
is admirable, — that is terrible ! And this, the most torturing of 
all jeabusy, Avas precisely that of Cotin. He Avould have given 
twenty of his OAvn sermons, to find a fault of any importance in 


330 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


the one which he had just heard ; but in vain he racked his 
brains, he came back, always, in spite of himself, to the purest, 
most striking, most irreproachable passages. One would have 
fancied that a demon came to sing them in his ear. 

And, nevertheless, he did not yield ; bad taste and bad feel- 
ings gained the day. T One always finishes by believing what one 
passionately wishes^ Cotin wished to think this sermon a paltry 
one ; he succeeded. How, I do not know ; but the night was 
not over befon? our man had contrived to convince himself of two 
things ; first, — that this discourse, the amplification of a school- 
boy, had in truth, possessed the principal merits of a schoolboy, 
but at the same time all the faults ; secondly, that the youth of 
the orator had been taken into consideration, and that in ap- 
plauding him so loudly, people had in reality only wished to en- 
courage him. Thereupon he rubbed his hands, and enchanted 
with so judicious a conclusion, — he forgot the four or five hours 
of torment and sleeplessness which he had given himself in order 
to arrive at it. 

The most difiicult part was accomplished. Once convinced of 
the worthlessness of this miserable discourse, he knew his own 
influence too well to fear that . the Hotel de Rambouillet would 
venture to think otherwise. He, however, took good care, the 
next evening, not to attack openly an impression still so vivid. 
He listened without saying anything ; he only approved by an 
imperceptible smile, only disapproved by a cold immovability ; 
the whole, be it understood, in a manner which allowed it to 
be perceived that he did not think any the less for this. 

The day after, the same reserve ; but it might be remarked, 
that two or three of his friends had singularly changed their 
tone. One made the remark as a general one, that no really good 
discourse ought to please and allure simply as a whole ; another 
repeated the remark, adding that before praising the sermon of 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


331 


this young Ba isuet so highly, it would have been wise to ash 
themselves why they admired it, and analyze it. “ There were 
not four of all those ideas on the fragility of man,” said this one, 
“ which are not in Seneca.” 

“ Without doubt,” added the other, “ and I recollect very well 
one long tirade which seemed translated from Cicero.” — “ And 
who knows,” resumed a third, “ whether we have not all been his 
dupes ? You saw how his quarry was furnished ; not a word out 
of place, not a dragging sentence ; — he was reciting, gentlemen, 
he was reciting. — Find me a preacher who has not a sermon on 
death in his head ! He had memorized this, I say — ” And the 
idea appeared an excellent one. Besides, it must be confessed, 
that judged by the oratorical theories of the age, this discourse 
was faulty in more than one respect. No striking divisions, no 
subtilties, no syllogisms, no profane images, not a single verse 
from Homer or Virgil, — decidedly it was miserably poor. It 
is true, that the orator had captivated all minds, touched all 
hearts, overthrown all obstacles; — no matter; in place of con- 
cluding that his method is a good one, since it so well conducted 
him to his object, it is decided that it is good for nothing, because 
it is not exactly according to all the forms. And this was soon 
the opinion of the whole company. Three persons, three only, 
took the other side of the question ; three persons, it is true, who 
were well worth any three others, since they were Messieurs de 
Montausier and Turenne, as well as the Prince de Conde, to whom 
were added M. de Feuquieres, the protector of Bossuet, and a 
certain poet named Corneille, in no great favor at the Hotel de 
Rambouillet. But as to this latter, it was an understood thing 
that no one should regard what he said ; as to the others, after 
having mechanically and from respect, granted them a few mo- 
ments attention, people ran to resume their places and re-open 
their ears in the groups over which Cotin presided. 


\ 


832 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


Conde was not of a passive disposition. He soon lost pa- 
tence, and with all the impetuosity of the conqueror of Rocroy, 
he darted towards Cotin, broke through the double rank of sim- 
pletons who surrounded him, seized his arm, and cried, “ Monsieur 
I’Abbe, I should be very glad to have a sermon from you also — ” 

“ Well, Monseigneur, — Sunday, — at the Louvre,” said Cotin, 
who had, however, very well understood what the prince meant 
by this. 

“ Not at all, not at all,” resumed the prince briskly ; “ I mean 
a sermon — ^j’ou understand — like the other, upon a subject drawn 
at hazard. In the king’s chapel, I have heard you, often, very 
often. Monsieur I’Abbe.” 

It was clear that this very often, signified too often. Cotin 
bowed. — “ To-morrow, if Monseigneur orders it.” 

“ Well ! gentlemen,” the prince began, in the tone of a herald 
at arms, “ Monsieur I’Abbe Cotin here has promised to gratify us 
to-morrow by an extemporized sermon !” 

The abbe carried it off as well as possible. 

Not that he was altogether a novice in the difficult art of extem- 
porization. He had talent, and even a good deal of talent ; now, 
if talent be not genius, it is that which can best supply the want 
of it. Cotin had experienced this many a time, and certes, if he 
were wanting in anything, it was not vanity. And yet he was 
not easy. I know not what presentiment told him that the com- 
parison would not be to his advantage. His young rival had 
bounded with pride and joy at the idea of so glorious a trial ; he, 
on the contrary, could scarcely sustain himself. But Bossuet, in 
looking forward to the terrible evening, had felt a tormenting in- 
quietude increase from hour to hour ; he, surrounded by ad- 
mirers, and complimented beforehand, was not long in becoming 
calm. When the moment arrived, he was tranquil ; his head 
was raised, his countenance radiant ; it was the Cotin of every 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


333 


clay, so completely that he affirmed he had not waked until 
ni le o’clock, “ so far was I,” he seemed to imply, “ from feeling 
the slightest uneasiness.” Upon which the Viscomte de Turenne 
observed, with an incredulous smile, that it w'ould have been still 
finer to sleep until evening, and to awake, like Alexander, only 
at the moment of the battle. 

The drawing of the text took place as on the first occasion, 
only it was a lady, — the young and beautiful Comtesse de La- 
fayette, who presented it to the orator. Cotin was not quite so 
tranquil at this moment ; but, nevertheless, he thought himself 
obliged to compliment the comtesse, and said to her, with the 
greatest coolness, “ Madame, when a lady of your merit deigned 
to present her chevalier with a sword, he believed himself invin- 
cible ; but I dare not believe it is the same with the sword of the 
word of God, however beautiful the hand which has just armed 
me with it — ” 

“ Bad beginning. Monsieur I’Abbe said a severe voice ; “ do 
not let us mingle God and the devil — ” 

Cotin started, and was silent ; this voice was that of Monsieur 
de Montausier, and the poor abbe did not care to enter into an 
explanation with a man whose grave good sense had more than 
once disconcerted him. Besides, from one moment to another, 
he felt his assurance forsaking him. A quarter of an hour was 
oftered him to arrange his ideas, and he had great need of it ; 
but to accept this favor would be to place himself beneath him 
who had not made use of it. What should he do then ? His 
eyes fixed upon his paper, he slowly approached the door, there 
stopped, then went on ; he grew red and pale by turns. At last* 
prudence gained the victory ; he was going out, when his eye» 
met those of the Prince de Conde ; he saw him enjoying his ei^ 
barrassment, and this mute defiance made him ascend the tv - 
steps of the little pulpit with a single stride. 


334 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


The oracle was about to speak. Conversations, movements all 
ceased. In the twinkling* of an eye the assembly was ready to 
listen, or to applaud rather, for these two words were synony- 
mous, as soon as Cotin was in the case ; and applause was very 
nearly commencing already, when with his sweetest (doucereuse) 
voice, he read the words of his text ; “ I am your father^ saith 
the Lord? “ A sweet subject, a charming subject,” murmured 
the ladies. 

And he also was a sweet man, a charming man, the Abbe 
Ootin ! He was nearly forty, but you would not have guessed 
him to be thirty. It was a sight to see him, with his long, curl- 
ing hair, — with his little moustache, which the most elegant no- 
bles of the court envied him, and with those blue eyes Avhich had 
gained him a compliment from the queen mother, his canonicate 
of Bayeux, a thousand crowns from the privy purse of the car- 
dinal, and so many other favors not recorded by history. Be- 
sides, if his eloquence lacked fire and nobleness, nothing could 
have been more graceful. I have seen a paltry sonnet to his 
praise, in which the author scruples not to say of him, as Homer 
of the old Nestor ; 

“ Sweeter than honey, far, thy voice 
Flows in pure waves,” etc. 

But it was further necessary that he should have something 
to say, and this was hardly the case. He had one of those sub- 
jects which appear fruitful, and which are so in reality, but 
which only yields as preachers say, by dint of labor, or at least 
i)y force of genius. In the beginning, the orator imagines that 
he will never finish ; he speaks five minutes, and finds that he 
is at a stop. And this is what happened. 

His exordium was not bad. He described tolerably well what 
there is consolatory and noble in this great thought of the uni- 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


335 


versal paternity of God, announced by nature, and confirmed by 
religion. Ideas and words seemed to flow in abundance; the 
Ave Maria was recited with enthusiasm. 

“ Well, monsieur,” said a lady to one of her neighbors, who 
had appeared to doubt the abbe’s success, “ what do you say to 
that ?” 

“ What do I say, madame ? I say that it is impossible more 
gracefully to eat one’s corn in the blade.” 

“ But what do you mean ?” 

“ You will understand me presently.” 

And, in fact, the orator had said all, devoured all in his^exor- 
dium. Whether he had not thought of the remainder, or rather, 
whether he had not known how to do otherwise, he was not long 
in perceiving that he had finished before he had really com- 
menced, that he was repeating his exordium, that he was going 
round in a circle, in fact, that he was going to stop short. Stop 
short ! Ask the lawyer, the preacher, — ask whoever speaks in 
public, if there is any torture equal to that of not knowing what 
one is going to say next, of racking one’s brains without being 
able to get a single idea ! bTo ! the soldier who has just used 
his last cartridge, and sees himself still surrounded by twenty 
enemies, is not more ill at his ease, than the orator who has let 
go his last idea. He economizes it, he caresses it, he loads it 
with synonyms, — and yet it is about to end ! He knows, he 
feels it ; it is like the archdeacon hung by his torn robe to the 
gutter which bends beneath his weight, and is about to precipi- 
tate him into the abyss. 

The silence was redoubled. All eyes were fixed upon Cotin 
with an anxiety full of interest, but which was none the less em- 
barrassing for that. Sometimes he could scarcely be heard ; 
sometimes, like those who are afraid, and sing to inspire them- 
selves with courage, — he set off on a gafiop and with a thunder- 


336 


TWO EVENINGS AT THE 


ing voice. Bossuet ! Bossuet ! thou wert already sufficiently 
avenged. 

AVe do not know how the thing would have finished, if a lady 
who had a great friendship for him, had not rendered him the 
eminent service of being seized with a nervous attack. In less 
than a second, all was in confusion, and the orator, springing 
down from the pulpit which he nearly overturned, ran to join 
those who were rendering their aid to Mme. de , and carry- 

ing her from the saloon. He played his devotion so well, and 
besides, so many persons were interested in his cause, that no one 
wished to seem to perceive what a lucky accident this had been 
for him. “ AVhat a pity,” said his principal friends, on the con- 
trary, “ what a pity he should have been interrupted !” 

“ He was just coming to a dead stop,” said the Prince de Conde, 
in a low voice. 

“ I saw it perfectly well,” said Turenne. 

“ Let us see a little how he will take up his thread again.” 

“We must give him a quarter of an hour.” 

“ Not at all ; let him pay all tne interest of this chastisement 
to his malicious tongue.” 

“ Come, we must be more charitable than he.” 

And when the orator returned, there was a cry from all sides 
that it was just to let him take breath. Cotin did not require 
persuasion ; Mme. de Rambouillet led him into her cabinet, and 
the fifteen minutes granted, lasted nearly thirty. This entr'act 
appeared somewhat long, but all took good care not to say so, 
and Cotin found his audience as attentive and benevolent as ever. 

This time he had a plan, — a plan drawn up according to all 
the rules of Quinctillian and Aristotle, which does not always 
signify, according to the rules of eloquence. Three points di- 
vided his discourse ; each point had three subdivisions ; each sub- 
division two parallel ideas ; all of which were distinctly num- 


HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


337 


bered and noted down upon a little paper which he brought in 
the sleeve of his robe, and placed adroitly before him. But — 
at the first gesture, behold this unlucky paper flies off, and falls, 
fluttering round and round, at the feet of a lady, who either from 
malice or kindness, hastens to return it to him ! Cotin stifled 
his vexation ; he could have torn it into a thousand fragments ; 
he could have gnawed it between his teeth, this miserable paper, 
which he no longer dared to use, and which had caused him 
such mortification. But alas ! he could only crumple it between 
his fingers with an affected nonchalence. Did he recollect his 
plan ? The chronicle saith not ; all that we know is, that he 
arrived without fresh accident at the end of his journey, which, 
in truth, was not long, for in less than twenty minutes he had 
pronounced his last amen. 

Consequently, his best friends looked embarrassed enough. 
They pressed his hand, but without saying anything, and this 
mute compliment resembled not a little a compliment of condo- 
lence. No conversation could be established. Many were near 
bursting into a fit of laughter, and others, the majority, on the 
point of bursting into tears ; everywhere was the same uneasi- 
ness, the same wish to see the end of this miserable evening. 
Turenne was one of the first to disappear ; as ever, generous and 
good, he was reluctant to push Cotin’s mortification any further. 
Soon the leave-taking was general; before nine o’clock, there 
were not a dozen persons left in the saloon. 

And Cotin ? you will ask. Cotin probably passed a very un- 
comfortable night ; but we should ill-understand the spirit of the 
age, if we should imagine that this check much injured his 
fame. Two days had been enough to efface at the Hotel de 
Rambouillet the most profound impressions of Bossuet’s elo- 
quence ; two days were enough to re-establish Cotin. — The first 
remained in his college ; the other seized again, without opposi- 

29 


338 


THE HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET. 


tion, the sceptre of taste and fashion. But years afterwards, 
Cotin was still the Abbe Cotin, with some talents the less, and 
some absurdities the more, — while Bossuet was already Mon- 
seigneur the Bishop of Condom, until he should becomb tie 
bishop, or, as he is called, the Eagle of Meaux. 


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